The Smallest Part

by Amy Harmon

  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.

  “Or she got the days mixed up. I know she swung by the school and talked to Janna Gregory. At the funeral, Janna said Cora was acting off, that her visit was a surprise. Cora gave her a hug and told her how much she appreciated her.” Cora had taught music for six years at Little Oak Elementary School, and planned to go back when Gia was older. Janna Gregory was the principal, and she and Cora were close.

  “She left a message on my phone, Mer. She told me she loved me. Told me how lucky she was to be my wife. I thought it was because she’d missed our anniversary a few days before. She felt bad about that. I didn’t care. It didn’t matter. But she was devastated, like she’d betrayed me.”

  “Before she left my house that day, she asked me if I would take care of you and Gia
if something happened to her,” Mercedes confessed in a rush. Such a huge, black confession. And still she didn’t cry. She sat frozen, jaw clenched, hands fisted. She looked around for something to do, something to fix, something to clean or care for, but it was all done. Noah was the only one who needed care, and she couldn’t meet his eyes.

  “I should never have let her leave. I blame myself. I let her leave, and now she’s gone. It’s my fault,” Mercedes finished. “I didn’t want to tell you because . . . because . . . I thought it would make things harder for you. But it’s my fault.” Her hands began to shake, and she stood slowly and pushed her chair in, clinging to the top rung.

  “I have scissors in my purse. I can cut your hair . . . if you want me to. Or I can go. If I were you, I’d want me to go.”

  Noah reached out and grabbed her hand, pulling it from the chair, rising beside her when she tried to let go.

  Noah’s eyes were a blue so dark they often looked black. But now, filled with forgiveness, they were a navy that made her knees weak and her grip strong. She clung to his hand, and willed the pain in her chest to recede.

  “It’s not your fault, Mer,” he said, his voice firm.

  She nodded, but she wasn’t sure she believed him.

  “You don’t get to shoulder this one. I forbid it,” he insisted.

  “I didn’t save her, Noah.”

  “I didn’t save her either.”

  For a moment they were quiet, their hands clasped, lost in their own remorse and their shared loss. Then Mercedes pulled away, straightened her shoulders, and looked at her watch. She’d had all the intimacy she could bear. Noah almost smiled, watching her. He was drained, yet the emptiness was almost blissful. It was good to have her back.

  “Call Mrs. Greer. Tell her no more Sunday nights. I’ll make you something to eat, and I’ll stay with Gia tonight and watch her tomorrow. And every Monday. I bet she’s grown in the last six weeks! I have to clean that pigsty you two are sleeping in. I never thought I’d see the day when Noah Andelin didn’t have his shit together. It’s a sure sign that you are human. Take heart. You may be numb, but you aren’t perfect.”

  He laughed. “I missed you, Mer. Thanks for being mean to me. It makes me feel almost normal.”

  ***

  Four

  1986

  “Stockton, at the top of the key. He hippity-hops left, finds Malone, Malone fakes and spins. It’s up, it’s good!” Mercedes did her best Hot Rod Hundley—color commentator for the Utah Jazz—impersonation as Noah buried the shot. Her impersonation sucked, but Noah didn’t seem to mind. He gave her a high five and passed her the ball so they could do it again. She dribbled this way and that, avoiding the cracks in the concrete, and instead of passing him the ball, she took the shot. He tried to block it, but Mercedes was used to that. The ball sailed over his outstretched hands and swished through the hoop.

  “Stockton scores!” Mercedes shouted. “Nothin’ but net.”

  “We’re on the same team, Mer,” Noah complained.

  “So why did you try to block my shot, Karl?” she countered.

  “Why do you two always get to be Karl Malone and John Stockton?” Cora grumbled. “And why don’t you ever pass me the ball?”

  “Mark Eaton’s cool, Corey. And he has red hair, just like you,” Noah soothed.

  “He’s a giant!” Cora whined. “And he has a beard!”

  “I like beards,” Mercedes said.

  “You do?’ Noah asked, wide-eyed.

  Mercedes ignored him, turning to Cora who stood beneath the basketball hoop, her arms folded, her face glum. “Eaton is the center of the team, Cora. There are two guards, two forwards, but only one center. That means you’re very important,” she explained.

  Cora wasn’t convinced, so Mercedes began her play-by-play once more. “Eaton’s right under the basket. He’s wide open. Malone sets a pick, Stockton glides by, finds the big man in the middle.” She tossed Cora the ball. “Eaton puts that baby to bed!”

  Cora, her smile wide, caught the ball and banked it off the backboard, her touch light, her head back. The ball rattled around the rim and fell through the net.

  They all cheered wildly, circling the concrete pad with their hands in the air like they’d just won the NBA championship. They practiced their free throws until it was too dark to see the net and planned to meet up after school to play again.

  But Cora didn’t show the next day. She wasn’t at school and no one answered her door when Noah and Mercedes rang the doorbell and tried to peer through the front window. They went to the small court and began playing HORSE without her, certain she would join them when she could.

  It wasn’t until Mercedes missed a shot, the ball sailing over the backboard and disappearing behind the rusted metal dumpster that they found her. Trash days were Mondays, and it was Tuesday, so the bin was relatively empty. Mercedes was grateful the ball hadn’t dropped inside, and she chased it down, coming to a horrified halt when she saw Cora lying in a heap between the back of the dumpster and the fence.

  Mercedes must have called for Noah—she didn’t remember doing so—but he was suddenly beside her, standing over Cora. They didn’t scream for help, and they didn’t run away. The thought never occurred to either of them.

  Noah said Cora’s name, and she opened her eyes. She wore jeans and a black turtleneck, and her face was so pale it appeared to float, separate from her body, like the moon in a dark sky. Her matted, red hair reminded Mercedes of the clown mask Noah had worn the Halloween before last, lank and garish, falling in her face. She lay with her arms wrapped around her midsection, and her hands were smeared with blood.

  “Corey?” Noah said again, kneeling beside her.

  Cora began to cry, a deep, keening wail that reverberated in Mercedes’s belly—like riding a roller coaster and leaving your stomach behind. But it didn’t feel good, and her stomach didn’t settle or flip in excitement. It stayed, floating somewhere at the base of her throat, and she gagged on her fear.

  “Are you hurt, Cora?” Mercedes whispered, squatting down beside Noah. “Where have you been?” Mercedes touched Cora’s arm—her skin was so hot—and Cora jerked and sat up abruptly, shuddering and whimpering.

  “Can you walk?” Noah asked.

  “Tell me what hurts,” Mercedes said and patted Cora’s knee, muttering the way her abuela did when she was trying to give comfort, using soft words and random observations that took Mercedes’s mind away from her troubles. Abuela would bandage scraped knees or wipe away tears while she said things like, “I made tamales this morning. I think they are the best I’ve ever made. I wrapped them up so tight and safe. They are happy tamales. And when we eat them, they will make us happy too.” Or, “When I walked home from the store today, the clouds above were in the shape of Our Lady—she was looking down on me—and I felt loved.” Even Abuela’s ailments were turned into cause for gratitude. “I have a tickle in my throat today. I think it is because you made me laugh so hard last night. We are so lucky to laugh together, don’t you think?” They were words that meant nothing and everything. Words that made Mercedes feel safe and reminded her that life would go on beyond a temporary pain. Mercedes tried to give the same kind of words to Cora, hopeful that she would be soothed by the inanities and anchored by their normalcy.

  “We looked for you, Cora. You didn’t come to school and no one answered the door when we got home. We thought maybe you had a new book and wanted to read instead of shooting hoops. Noah said it must be a romance because you were nowhere to be found, and that’s your favorite kind. I read a new book last week, for English class. Did I tell you about it? I thought I wouldn’t like it, but I did. There was no romance, but I fell in love anyway. It was called The Outsiders. It reminded me of us. There were characters with names like Soda Pop and Pony Boy. Should we call Noah Pony Boy?”

  This time, Cora didn’t jerk away, but her tears came faster.

  “I can’t go home,” she moaned.

  “Ca
n you stand?” Noah asked.

  She tried, but her legs trembled. Mercedes pulled Cora’s arm around her shoulders and wrapped her arm around Cora’s waist. Noah did the same, and they eased her to her feet. Cora was shaky but didn’t appear to be injured, despite the blood.

  “What time is it?” Cora whispered. “What . . . day?”

  Noah and Mercedes exchanged a worried look over Cora’s drooping head.

  “It’s Tuesday,” Noah offered.

  “It’s still Tuesday?” Cora said in wonder.

  “Where were you, Cora?” Mercedes asked again.

  “I was sick. Mom let me stay home from school. I don’t think Daddy knew I was there,” Cora stammered.

  “Why is there blood on your hands?” Noah asked.

  “Daddy left me, and I tried to bring him back,” she whispered.

  * * *

  “Open it,” Mercedes demanded, pushing the package into Noah’s hands. It was his birthday—October 14th—and she was making sure he celebrated being thirty years old. He had a tired look that he hadn’t worn on his twenty-ninth birthday, but that was to be expected after the last six months. She’d made him a cake, three chocolate layers, vanilla buttercream frosting, and candy bar shavings, got a babysitter, and was making him open his presents.

  He was being a good sport about it, shaking each box and making ridiculous guesses—a hula hoop, a Subway sandwich, a new car—before opening each one, careful not to rip the paper. It was an old habit from being a kid with nothing. Everything got re-used.

  The first gift was a picture of the three of them, skinny-limbed and tousled hair, their shoelaces untied, teetering on the edge of childhood. Mercedes had budding breasts and scabbed knees, Noah wore a backwards ball cap and sported little biceps, and Cora was a head taller than both of them, looking like the big sister, her arms folded in front of her, her smile shy. Noah clutched a basketball against his left side and had his other arm slung over Mercedes’s shoulders. Mercedes had an arm around Noah on her left, Cora on her right, a cheesy, squinty-eyed grin on her face.