Noah had stopped crying too. At the service, his face was pale granite, his eyes cratered with misery and missed sleep. Heather cried more than everyone else put together. Alma said mothers had more tears, though her own eyes had remained dry. Mercedes had done Heather’s hair before the funeral, but Heather had done her own makeup, and mascara was streaked down Heather’s prematurely wrinkled cheeks like streamers at a Halloween dance.
Alma took Gia during the funeral service and entertained her in the church foyer. Alma said she wouldn’t understand what was being said anyway. Her English wasn’t great, but Mercedes knew she understood much more than she let on. It was her way of serving while avoiding her feelings. Mercedes was like her mother. They kept busy so they wouldn’t go crazy. They stayed busy so grief couldn’t catch them.
At the cemetery, they all stood around the casket suspended over the gaping hole. The ground was wet, and the leaves were just beginning to bud on skeletal limbs. The sun was bright, the day mild. April was a bitch in Utah—moody and hormonal. Some days she moaned, some days she turned a cold shoulder on her citizens, some days she teased them with rays of hope-filled warmth. The day Cora was buried she beamed psychotically, and as the casket was lowered into the ground, she wrapped the onlookers in a gentle breeze.
Noah played a song on his guitar. It was the silly tune he’d written to ask Cora to marry him. Mercedes had never had the heart to tell him it was terrible. But as she listened to his quiet voice and the awkward strumming of his long fingers, not quite holding the chord, she realized how wrong she’d been. It was a song about all the little things he loved about her, all the parts that made up the whole. He’d rhymed words like button and glutton, like boring and snoring, and when he’d played it for Cora the first time, before he popped the question, she’d hardly been able to keep a straight face.
But between the silly verses and his bashful delivery, there was love and devotion, there was commitment and promise, and there was hope. It wasn’t terrible at all. It was perfect, and it was painful. It was all Mercedes could do not to cover her ears until it was over. Noah’s voice broke as he sang the last line, and the small group gathered around him smiled at the song’s whimsy, at his heartfelt sentiments, and their tears fell again. But Mercedes didn’t cry.
Two
1985
“What do you want to do when you grow-up?” Noah asked.
“I don’t want to grow up,” Cora said.
They were sitting on the hot sidewalk, shivering, trying to get dry. A delivery truck had smashed into a hydrant in front of their apartment complex shooting water into the air and spilling it down the streets. It had been over one hundred degrees every day since the Fourth of July, and the water had felt like a fountain from heaven. Noah, Mercedes, and Cora hadn’t wasted time getting in their suits, afraid the fire truck would arrive and shut the water down before they could change. Their shorts and T-shirts were drenched, their legs stretched out in front of them, highlighting the differences in their skin tones. Brown, white, and red—Cora burned so easily her nose was perpetually peeling. Noah didn’t burn, but his legs were white compared to Mercedes. Mercedes was normally golden, but in the summertime, she was downright chocolatey. Their legs looked like Neapolitan ice cream.
“I want to own a beauty salon when I’m older,” Mercedes said. She already had a name for it. MeLo—pronounced mellow—for the first two letters of her first and last names. Mercedes Lopez. MeLo. She thought it was the perfect name for a place where people went to relax and turn into butterflies.
“Why do you want to do that?” Noah asked.
“Because I like making people look beautiful. I love makeup. I love hair. I love clothes.” Mercedes shrugged. “And I like bossing people around, so I need to own it. Not just work there. What do you want to do?”
“I want to be a doctor,” Noah said, lying back, his eyes on the sky, his skinny arms folded behind his head. Cora and Mercedes immediately lay back beside him.
“I couldn’t be a doctor. I couldn’t look at blood all day.” Mercedes grimaced.
Cora shuddered. “Or bones. Or vomit.”
“I don’t want to be that kind of doctor,” Noah said. “I want to be a doctor who helps people with mental illness.”
“We’re eleven, Noah. What in the hell is mental illness?” Swearing made Mercedes laugh, so she swore often.
“Noah wants to help people who are sad. Like my dad,” Cora explained.
“And my mom,” Noah added. He turned his head and gave Mercedes a smile. “You make them look good on the outside, Mer. I’ll fix ‘em up on the inside.”
“Maybe I should go to beauty school too,” Cora mused. “Then I could work at your salon with you, Sadie.”
Mercedes shrugged. Cora forgot to brush her own hair half the time. Mer couldn’t imagine her styling someone else’s hair and being happy doing it. “If you want, sure. Wouldn’t you rather do something else, though?”
“I told you, I don’t want to grow up. It scares me,” Cora murmured.
“That’s because every grown-up you know needs a doctor like Noah,” Mercedes said. The Three Amigos Apartments were full of crazies.
“Your mom and dad don’t, Mer,” Noah argued.
“That’s because we’re Mexican. Papi says Mexicans are tough,” Mercedes said proudly, jutting out her chin.
“Then maybe when I grow up, I’ll be a Mexican,” Cora said. Noah and Mercedes laughed uproariously, and Mercedes sat up and looked down at her friend. Cora’s hands were folded over her chest, and her eyes were closed. Her red hair fanned out around her head and shoulders on the concrete, fiery in the sun, reminding Mercedes of the painting Abuela kept over her bed, the one of Our Lady of Guadalupe, her body surrounded by a holy glow. Cora wasn’t laughing, and suddenly, neither was Mercedes.
* * *
Noah read Viktor Frankl’s book, Man’s Search for Meaning when he was sixteen. He read it so many times the cover fell off and the pages came loose. The first half of the book chronicled Frankl’s experiences in a concentration camp, but the part that impacted Noah most was when Viktor described laboring in the forest near Auschwitz, believing his wife was still alive across the way in the women’s camp.
She wasn’t. But there was a moment when Viktor looked up into the sky and out into the cold beauty of the world around him, thinking of his wife, and he realized that the soul itself could not be incarcerated. He still had the liberty to love. He still had the freedom to hope, to experience joy and gratitude, even amid all the horror around him. The knowledge liberated him and kept him alive.
Noah thought of Viktor Frankl more in the weeks following Cora’s death than he’d thought about him in years. How ironic that he, too, would long for his wife, taken from him too soon, whisked into a Neverland where only God and his angels could see her face. He had not yet experienced his own liberation; his soul was chained to the earth by regret, and Cora was in the clouds. He was the same man, but his chest had been cracked open, his skin peeled back, and in the wake of Cora’s passing, he walked around with everyone staring at his gruesome, exposed heart, unable to help him, secretly wishing he’d go away until it healed.
He didn’t go back to work immediately; better not to subject the staff at Montlake to his chest wound. He would have to go back soon. Cora had a sizeable life insurance policy, but there was a suicide clause, and an investigation was being done. The person who saw her car go over the edge said she hadn’t even slowed. Noah didn’t want the money—it made him sick and sad—but he needed it, if only to buy him some time to figure out how to negotiate fatherhood without help. Maybe that wasn’t fair. He had help, though his helpers were sporting hearts almost as bruised and battered as his.
Cora’s mom, Heather, cried whenever she talked to him, and Noah was grateful for her preoccupation with her own bloody scars. It kept her from seeing his. Mercedes didn’t cry; her pain was more like an abscess, invisible to everyone else, but patently obvious to him. It would have to be lanced eventually, but she wasn’t letting anyone near her. She cooked and cleaned and made sure Noah didn’t run out of diapers and that his cupboards were stocked. She didn’t ask him how he was. She knew. They moved silently in each other’s orbits, solitary planets in a lonely galaxy.
Gia, in all her innocent oblivion, was his saving grace. It was only when he looked down into his daughter’s sleeping face, when he held her in his arms or saw her smile, that, like Viktor, he realized joy was possible amid terrible pain. Viktor had searched for meaning in his life. Noah didn’t have to look very far. Gia gave him purpose. She was his why when every day he woke up thinking, “what the hell do I get up for?”
Grief was greedy and depleting, and he could not take care of Gia if he allowed himself to wallow in it. His mother had done that. Wallow and wade, making the hole deeper and darker, until her grief became a warm cloak of excuses. Noah had been forced to grow up the moment Shelly expelled him from her womb. Her sadness had aged him.
He didn’t want that for Gia. So he bandaged up his oozing flesh and put his grief in the room where he kept bad memories and useless truths. He didn’t ignore it. He just didn’t change his dressings or open the door very often. When he did, he barely cracked it, reaching in for the bare minimum before ducking out again and pulling the door shut behind him. He kept his eyes averted from his mangled chest and faced each day in pieces and small parts, conquering the essentials one by one, and trying not to worry about anything unnecessary. He had to feed, change, clothe, and comfort, and he focused his efforts there.
He wasn’t especially skilled at diaper changing. He was ashamed to admit he hadn’t changed many in the first year of Gia’s life. He’d never gotten up with Gia in the night to feed her. The most he’d done was rise, take Gia from her crib, and pass her to Cora. He didn’t have the necessary equipment for breast-feeding, and Cora had been adamant about the ritual. But a month after Cora died, Noah could change a diaper and make a bottle and barely wake up to do it. No saggy bottoms and loose tabs. He diapered the way he’d learned to make his bed in boot camp. Tight corners, straight lines, everything tucked and smooth. It didn’t take long before he knew what temperature Gia liked her formula, before he knew what foods she would eat—mashed potatoes were always welcome—and which ones made her shudder.
Gia’s hair was another issue. It stood on end when it didn’t hang in her eyes. He found a little, pink barrette in the bathroom drawer, but she immediately yanked it out along with a handful of hair, and howled in pain. Noah fell back on what he knew. He got Gia’s hair wet, slicked it down with pomade, and called it good. Her hair didn’t move. Problem solved. That is, until Mercedes stopped by to check on them, took one look at Gia, and crossed herself like her abuela used to do. Mercedes sat them down in the kitchen, Gia in her high chair, Noah on a stool, and gave them both haircuts.