“For the shower sex?” she interrupted. “Any time, big guy. Any time.” No one could say she didn’t recover quickly.
“Really?” he murmured, raising his eyes to hers. “Any time?”
“No,” she muttered, and cleared her throat.
“Then don’t say that, Mer. And don’t put words in my mouth.”
She nodded, chagrined, and took a big gulp of her milk. She didn’t like milk. Why had she poured herself a glass of milk? She held the liquid in her mouth, unwilling to swallow.
“Thank you for holding me accountable,” he continued quietly. “Thank you for being here. Thank you for making me burritos and making me brush my teeth. I didn’t know you wanted to jump me. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have asked you to leave, and my favorite sweats would still be dry.”
The milk in her mouth shot painfully from her nose.
She stood, choking and laughing, and splashed water on her face, relief flooding her belly and lightening her heart. They were going to laugh about it. Thank God. They were going to laugh like they always did, and they were going to be okay. He was going to be okay.
“I didn’t know that was going to happen,” Mercedes gasped, trying to catch her breath through her giggles.
“The milk coming out of your nose . . . or the sex?” Noah teased, deadpan, and she laughed harder. “I was wrong. You would make a great therapist. I feel much better,” Noah continued, still shoveling beans into his mouth. “We could open a clinic together, offer alternative forms of therapy. Your healing powers are remarkable.”
“Staaaahp,” Mercedes wheezed, unable to catch her breath.
“Hot. It was hot, Mer. Almost as good as your burritos.”
Eleven
1989
“Where’s my dad?” Noah asked.
Shelly Andelin huddled down inside her blanket and kept her eyes on the television. She loved Night Court and Judge Harry Stone. Sometimes he would catch her smiling at the screen. She didn’t laugh, and she didn’t yell, the way he sometimes did when he watched the Jazz. She watched the antics, listened to the canned laugh tracks, and rarely missed an episode.
He’d asked her before, but she’d always shrugged her shoulders and said she didn’t know. He’d asked what his father’s name was too, and never got an answer.
“Was his last name Andelin?”
“No. We weren’t married. You have my last name.”
“What was his last name?”
“Stone. His name was Harry Stone.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“What was his name, Mom?”
“I’m not sure.”
“So you have an idea?”
“No. No idea.”
“Why?”
“Because he didn’t introduce himself, Noah.”
That had shut him up for a long time. He didn’t want to know what that meant. But the labs in Mr. Ward’s class had him wondering again. Blood. Connections. Belonging. He knew nothing about his father and very little about his mother. Sure, he knew she didn’t like to go out. The fact that she’d kept a job in the records department for fifteen years was miraculous. The fact that she worked alone among the accounts of death and disease, slipping out of the hospital in the early-morning hours when everyone else was arriving helped. And he’d helped. That was miraculous too.
He knew her boss—a woman named Carole Stokes—and her coworkers by the shifts they worked and by their competence. He knew who accomplished the most and who skated through the hours, shoving files aside for the night shift to catch up on. Carole was good to his mother. She looked out for her, and by extension, looked out for him.
Carole knew Shelly Andelin’s limitations—mainly interaction—and never pressed the issue. She never told her Noah couldn’t come to work with her, though it was certainly against hospital policy. Nobody else brought their kid to work. Carole was the one who hooked Noah up with the course on medical transcription when he was fourteen. He listened to a tape recording, typed what he heard, and did the corresponding assignments in the workbook and mailed it in. When he finished the course, Carole hired him—technically she hired his mother—to do transcription work on the side, skirting the fact that he wasn’t old enough to be on the payroll. She’d given him the tools to do the job, and do the job he did.
Noah had asked Carole once if they were related. She’d smiled and told him no. She’d met Shelly when she worked in Admitting in the ER. Shelly had been brought in, hugely pregnant, with pre-eclampsia. She almost died. Noah almost died too. When Carole discovered that Shelly had been living under the overpass, she started pulling strings and calling in favors. A bed in a shelter led to a room in a halfway house. The room in the halfway house became a room in a women’s group home.
It helped that Shelly didn’t have a drug habit—that came later in the form of sleeping pills. It also helped that she was quiet and didn’t make trouble. She worked hard and did everything she was told, and when Carole was hired to run the records department, she brought Shelly with her. From the group home, Shelly and Noah moved into the Three Amigos Apartments. It must have felt like an oasis to Shelly, with the space and quiet and privacy she longed for. For the first time, she could stop holding her breath. She could exhale. The problem is, she never inhaled again.
Noah knew all of this about his mother, yet he didn’t know her at all. She didn’t share her thoughts. Didn’t have a philosophy about life. She existed, and he existed with her. But he wanted to know more.
“You said he didn’t introduce himself . . . my father. What does that mean?” Noah asked.
“I didn’t know him. I didn’t want to know him.”
Noah swallowed and closed his eyes. He felt sick and scared, but he needed to know, and pretending the world wasn’t ugly didn’t change its face.
“Were you raped, Mom?” He was fifteen, not five. He knew the basics.
“No. We had an arrangement. It was over pretty quick. He didn’t hurt me.”
“And you don’t know who he was?”
“He was just another homeless man. I found a different place to sleep after that.”
Noah wasn’t surprised. He’d been unable to imagine a scenario where his mother would have had a relationship that resulted in a pregnancy. It was hard to imagine her in any relationship at all. But knowing his father was a random, homeless man didn’t do much for Noah’s self-worth. He had no response to the revelation. What could he say? Surprisingly, it was his mother who broke the silence.
“You’re a miracle, Noah,” she whispered, haltingly.
“What?”
“You’re a goddamn miracle.”
Her vehemence shocked him, and he stared at her, waiting. She met his gaze before looking back at the TV. The honorable Harry Stone was comforting his bailiff, Bull.
“You made me a believer,” she muttered.
“In what?” He willed her to look at him again, afraid she would just stop talking like she so often did.
“In God.”
“Why?” he urged. His voice had risen, and she exhaled heavily, like the whole conversation just made her tired.
“I sure as hell didn’t create you. That piece of shit who humped me didn’t create you. We made your body. But we didn’t make your soul. Your soul came from somewhere else, I’m sure of it.”
It was the nicest thing his mother had ever said to him. The wisest thing. And maybe because she rarely said anything at all, he believed her.
* * *
Noah didn’t know what the solution was. On the one hand, he didn’t want to know whether Gia was biologically his. On the other, he couldn’t ignore the fact that she might not be.
Before Afghanistan, he’d known he and Cora were in trouble. He’d known she wasn’t happy. Oddly, he’d never suspected she was cheating on him. Maybe it was his own naiveté, maybe he’d thought she loved him more than she did, or maybe it wasn’t about love at all. With Cora, it was hard to know. And now Noah would never know.
Part of him wondered if what happened with Mercedes over the weekend would have happened had he not been so angry with Cora. The thought worried him. He’d had a psychology professor who used to say, “hurt people hurt people.” It was true, but it didn’t mean it was okay. He didn’t want his hurt and anger harming Mercedes.
Would he have made love to Mercedes had the opportunity presented itself a week ago? Would he have moved so quickly from despondence to desire had he not been feeling so betrayed, had he not wanted to “show” Cora he didn’t love her either? The thought made his chest ache and his hands curl in shame. He wanted Mercedes left out of the equation. He wanted his feelings for her, his love for her, kept entirely separate from the ugliness in his head. But the lines had been blurred—the lines had been erased—Sunday night. He needed to fix that.
He’d moved through the stages of grief quickly—denial, anger, bargaining, and depression—before arriving at acceptance. Friday he’d walked out of the pediatrician’s office numb with denial. He’d swung between anger and depression Saturday and Sunday. When Mercedes left Sunday night, he’d found himself bargaining with the universe, negotiating and rationalizing. But acceptance came on Tuesday as he fed Gia her breakfast, a ritual that he enjoyed on the days he was home with her in the mornings.
Gia usually woke cheerful, which made waking easier for him. He was never ready to wake. On Tuesdays and Thursdays they ate, babbled, and took their time with life, moving through the morning without haste or hurry. Gia liked to help him clean—Dee-Uh cween, Daddy—and handed him clothes from the dryer, wiped everything knee level and down with her little, pink towel, and rode on the vacuum like she was a train conductor. He’d invented that game when Cora was alive, and Gia still got excited when she heard the vacuum whir.
Gia was a happy, little companion, a tiny reminder of all that was good and right in his world. As he watched her that morning, toddling at his heels, mimicking everything he said, and blissfully unaware of his heartbreak, he decided he could face the truth, whatever it was. Gia would not be fatherless. Not like he was. He was her father, and he would always be her father. His name was on the birth certificate, and his presence—the minutes, hours, and days—in her life meant more than the blood in her veins.
Commitment didn’t require genetics, and he was all in. But he’d never been one to stick his head in the sand. It was too frightening, too dark and gritty, his ass in the wind, his senses dulled. Whatever the truth was, he wanted to know it, if only to better protect his daughter, to better understand his wife, and to better prepare himself. So on Tuesday afternoon he got Gia dressed and prepared himself for the worst.
Gia might be cheerful, but she was also stubborn, and if she looked like a tiny bag lady when they left the house, it was not her daddy’s fault. She had a thing for layers, and she hated shoes. Maybe it was because Mer painted her toes every Monday—usually a different color on every toe—and Gia liked the way her toes looked and didn’t want to cover them. The only shoes Noah could reliably get her to wear were the pink sparkly snow boots that Heather had given her for Christmas. They were growing too small, and Noah, worried that she would outgrow them before she was ready to part with them, had purchased three pairs in the next three sizes. Pink snow boots in August could be a problem, but he would cross that bridge when he came to it.