Home > The Smallest Part(7)

The Smallest Part(7)
Author: Amy Harmon

“She got a cold. Then she got an ear infection. We went to Instacare yesterday and got some antibiotics. She should start feeling better soon. No fever today.”

“Why don’t you go back to bed? Gia’s asleep now. You should be too.”

“I have to go to work.”

“Tonight?” It was almost ten o’clock on a Sunday night.

“Mondays and Saturdays, I work days. On Saturdays, Heather takes Gia. Tuesdays and Thursdays, and every other Sunday, I work graves. Mrs. Greer comes over and sleeps here and takes Gia to Day Care in the morning when I work nights.”

“Mrs. Greer is a hundred years old,” Mercedes gasped.

“Eighty. And she’s raised four kids and two grandkids. All she has to do is get Gia up in the morning, change her diaper, dress her, and take her across the street to Sunnypatch. They feed Gia breakfast when she gets there. Mrs. Greer makes a little money, and she’s a sweet old lady.” He rubbed at his face. “I pick Gia up when I get home around 12:30 so she’s only there for four hours on Wednesdays and Fridays.”

“When do you sleep?”

“I sleep Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday nights.”

“Don’t forget every other Sunday.”

“Right.” He sighed.

“And Gia’s at Sunnycrap for twelve hours on Mondays—every Monday?”

“Eight. I get off at five on Mondays. Please don’t call it Sunnycrap. I feel guilty enough already.”

“The salon isn’t open on Mondays, Noah. You know that.”

He nodded wearily.

“So why the hell haven’t you asked me to watch Gia?”

“Because I knew you would say yes, and you have your own life.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that to me.”

His eyebrows rose over his bloodshot, blue eyes. “Say what?”

“I loved her too, Noah. And I love you. You are part of my life. I want to help. I need to help.” She felt the tears that would never reach her eyes fill her throat. She cleared it, swallowing them back down. The silence swelled between them, the drip from the faucet, the hum of the refrigerator, the murmur of a passing car.

“It’s been three months,” he whispered.

“It feels like three years,” Mercedes answered.

The silence grew again, Cora filling the space around them and between them. She sat in an empty chair, watching them miss her. Mercedes shook her head, and Cora was gone.

“I don’t feel anything at all most of the time, Mer,” Noah confided. His voice was hollow, and it rattled around in her head. She waited for him to continue.

“I know all the stages of grief. I know the clinical terms and the right things to say. I know how to listen and advise. But I’m numb. I keep waiting to feel something. I’m supposed to help people—sad, suicidal, dangerous, depraved. But I’m struggling to remember their names. The last few months are a blur. I’ve always been great at the details . . . the little things . . . the stuff most people don’t see . . . I see those things. It’s made me a good therapist. A good doctor. But right now . . . it’s all a blur, and I’m not good at anything. I’m not a good husband.” He flinched, as if remembering that he wasn’t a husband at all anymore. “I’m not a good father. I’m not a good therapist. I’m a collection of parts.”

Mercedes studied him, and after a moment, pulled out the chair and sat down beside him at the table, resting her chin on her hands.

“Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones,” she sang softly.

“What?” Noah asked, confused.

“I don’t remember if I read it in a book or saw it in a movie, but I heard once that we’re more than just the sum of our parts, and it stuck with me,” Mercedes mused. “I’m sure it was meant to be motivational, and I understood the sentiment. We’re more than male or female. More than our lips and tongues, more than our hearts and our lungs, more than the muscles that move beneath our skin and the blood that runs through our veins. We’re more than our arms and legs. More than our eyes. More than our feet and hands. We’re more than just a collection of bones, cobbled together by God or eons of evolution. We have souls. We have purpose. We’re more.”

“‘The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.’ It’s a quote by Aristotle,” Noah murmured. “I believe that. But right now . . . I’m dry bones. God, what an awful song.”

Mercedes laughed. “I knew you’d put it together. Motivational or not, that quote made me think of that day we spent at Bible Camp—dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones—and how the toe bone’s connected to the foot bone, the foot bone’s connected to the ankle bone, and so on, all the way up to the head bone. All those bones, all those parts, working together and infused with life. Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones. Now hear the word of the Lord!” Mercedes sang.

“That song made me think of Cora’s dad. It haunted me. Gave me nightmares,” Noah murmured.

Cora’s dad was a Marine, a member of the 1st Battalion 8th Marine Corp stationed in Beirut in 1983 when the USMC barracks were blown up by a suicide bomber. Two hundred twenty marines, eighteen sailors, and three soldiers died in the blast and the collapse of the building they were housed in. Cora’s dad didn’t die. Not then. He was one of the one hundred twenty-eight Americans who were wounded. His legs were crushed, and they had to amputate what was left of them at the top of his thighs. Then they sent him home with a purple heart, no legs, and no will to live.

“The truth is we’re more than just the sum of our parts until something breaks down and triggers a full-system failure. One missing piece, one faulty part, and it’s over,” Noah muttered. “When Cora’s dad lost his legs, it didn’t matter that he still had his arms and hands, his mind and his heart. It didn’t matter that he still had Cora and her mom.”

“Cora and I overheard Heather telling him not long after he came home that they could still make love. Her voice was all hopeful and sweet, and Cora and I covered our mouths so they wouldn’t hear us giggling,” Mercedes said, and cleared her throat. “We didn’t get how sad it was. How incredibly sad. We knew what she was talking about, even at ten years old, and we didn’t want to hear about her mom and dad kissing and making babies, which was what making love meant to us. Cora’s dad didn’t want to hear it either. He didn’t want to hear that there was life beyond his legs. He just wanted all his parts back.”

“Yeah. He did. And that wasn’t going to happen, so he killed himself. Cora found him. And now eighteen years later, she’s gone too. And I’m numb.” Noah stared at the table top, tracing a long scratch in the wood surface until it disappeared over the edge. “Maybe being numb is better than having phantom limb syndrome, or phantom wife syndrome. I forget that she’s gone sometimes. Just for a minute, and then I remember, and in those moments, I’m not numb. I’m in agony. So I guess the numb isn’t so bad.”

“You have doctor friends, right? People you can talk to? People who can guide you through this?” Mercedes asked, her eyes on his face.

“I don’t want to talk to anyone. I know that’s cliché. And if one of my patients said that to me, I know exactly what my response would be. But I don’t want to talk.”

“You’re talking to me right now.”

“You’ve always been good at making me talk,” he admitted.

“So tell me then. If you were diagnosing yourself, what would you say?”

“I’m numb because it’s easier to be numb than to feel. Numb keeps me moving forward. Numb keeps me going to work and taking care of my daughter. Numb is functional. So I’m numb.”

“Sounds reasonable. And that’s all? Just numb? Are you numb when you’re with Gia?”

His lips trembled. Not so numb then.

“Sometimes,” he admitted.

“And when you’re numb . . . do you still take care of her?”

His eyes shot to hers, indignant, flashing.

“When have I ever—ever—not taken care of my responsibilities?”

“Ha! Mad isn’t numb. I made you mad. I’m good at that too,” Mercedes said, smiling a little.

“True.” His mouth twitched. Another success.

“Noah?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m numb too. When I’m not numb, I’m pissed. When I’m not pissed . . . I feel guilty.”

“About what?”

“I feel guilty that I’m pissed.”

“Okay. Why are you angry?”

“Are you being my friend or are you being a therapist?” she asked.

“Which do you need?”

Mercedes snorted. “Probably the therapist.”

“Okay. Why are you angry, Mercedes?” He donned his doctor face and his professional voice. She smirked at him for a moment before she sighed and told him the truth.

“Well, Dr. Andelin. My best friend is dead. Her mother is devastated. Her little girl won’t remember her when she grows up. And my friend’s husband, who is also my best friend, won’t return my calls and allow me to help him.”

“And is he the only one you are pissed at?” he asked.

“Do you say pissed when you are talking to your other patients?”

“Yes. I use their words. Those are your words.”

“Ah. I see.” She nodded.

“Am I the only one you are pissed at, Mer?” he repeated gently.

“I’m not pissed at you. I’m pissed at life. And I’m pissed at Cora, Noah. I am really, really, angry at Cora. How messed up is that?”

He was silent, and his eyes clung to hers. “Are you angry because you think she left us on purpose? Like her dad?”

“Do you?” Mercedes whispered.

“I don’t know for sure. But it’s possible.”

“She seemed tired, Noah. And distracted.”

He nodded. “She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t relax. Didn’t want to take medicine because she was breastfeeding. She was . . . pretty wrung out. I shouldn’t have left her alone. I knew better. But I didn’t think . . . I didn’t want to believe . . .” his voice faded off.

“I shouldn’t have let her go to the doctor by herself,” Mercedes said, seeking to shoulder her own share of the blame. “She didn’t want me to come. But I should have insisted.”

“She didn’t go to the doctor. Dr. Wynn’s office called to remind her of her appointment for the Monday after she died. When I asked, they told me she didn’t have an appointment for April 5.”

“She lied?” Mercedes felt a flash of hot fury followed by new guilt. She was going to have to tell him. It wasn’t right not to tell him.

   
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