by Amy Harmon
“He does. But . . . how well do we ever really know someone, Sadie? Have you ever been in a dark room . . . a room so dark that you can’t see your hand when it’s right in front of your face?”
“Yeah,” Mercedes said, trying to follow along.
“Sometimes . . . I feel like I’m in a huge, dark room. There’s this space, endless space, all around me. I’m there, but no one could possibly see me. Not the real me. Because there’s so much . . . darkness and distance all around me. I’m a black speck on a black canvas. And only I know who and where I am.”
Mercedes had stopped curling Cora’s hair and was staring at her friend. “What’s going on, Cora? What’s wrong?” she repeated. “Do you want to postpone the wedding? Do you need more time?”
“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” Cora shot back, and her eyes filled with tears once more.
When Mercedes didn’t respond to the accusation but kept her gaze steady on Cora’s, Cora wilted.
“I’m sorry, Sadie,” she murmured.
“Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to Noah. If you’re going to cower in the dark and worry about existentialism while an amazing human is waiting at the end of the aisle, ready to promise his life to you, ready to stand beside you, to be a light in your darkness, then have the decency to tell him. Otherwise, I better see some rejoicing. I better see you smile. I better hear some hallelujahs and some celebrating. Because this is a good day.”
“But . . . what if . . . I’m not enough?” Cora whispered.
And there it was. At the heart of everything, Cora was still the little girl whose dad had chosen death over her, and nothing would ever convince her otherwise.
“You’re the only one holding a yardstick,” Mercedes said.
“What?”
“You decide if you’re enough. Noah already thinks you’re enough. He chose you. Just like you said. But he can’t change the way you feel about yourself. That’s up to you, Cora.”
Cora shook her head, resistant.
“Do you want to marry Noah?” Mercedes pressed.
“Yes.”
“Then do. And be happy. That’s your only job. Because if you are happy . . . he’ll be happy too.”
Two fat tears fell from Cora’s eyes and slid down her powdered cheeks.
Mercedes groaned. “You’re killin’ me, Smalls.”
“Quit quoting The Sandlot. This isn’t a baseball game,” Cora huffed, reaching for another tissue.
“There’s no crying in baseball!” Mercedes yelled, quoting yet another favorite film.
Cora giggled and blew her nose.
“Promise me you’ll give him your very best,” Mercedes implored. “Take care of him. Love him. He hasn’t had a lot of love, Cora. You know that. He might be the easiest man in the universe to love, because he expects so little. He expects nothing and is grateful for everything. With a man like that, how could you worry about being enough?”
For a moment Cora was quiet, deep in thought, and Mercedes continued to fix her hair in silence.
“Do you hate me, Mer?” Cora asked. It was Noah’s nickname, and Mercedes wondered if it was intentional.
“Cora, I’ve loved you from the first minute I saw you, twirling around and playing pretend all by yourself at The Three Amigos,” Mercedes reminded her.
Cora smiled, but her lips trembled, and her eyes swam.
“I remember that day. I was playing alone. Then you and Noah showed up . . . and you made everything better,” Cora whispered.
“We always do,” Mer teased.
“You always do,” Cora agreed. She was quiet again, and Mercedes thought maybe—finally—her nerves had settled.
“You’re in love with him, and I took him from you,” Cora said softly, sadly, raising her eyes to Mercedes’s in the mirror. “Deep down, I guess I’ve always known it, and I didn’t want to admit it.”
“No. I love him. That’s not the same thing,” Mercedes insisted, her gaze unflinching.
“I think it is, Mer,” Cora said, shaking her head. “In your case, I think it is. And I hope someday you’ll be able to forgive me.”
* * *
Mercedes’s Corolla wasn’t parked in front of Maven, and it wasn’t in the employee lot in back either. The business was dark, and when Noah tried the front door it was locked. Two cars were tucked next to the curb in front of the boutique a few doors down, and beyond that a car here or there dotted the mostly deserted thoroughfare. Noah climbed back in his Subaru and pulled into the gas station across the street, sliding into a parking spot beside a seasonal snow cone shack. Three festive tables clustered around the tiny establishment, and the row of empty parking spaces served both businesses.
Mercedes obviously wasn’t at the salon, but he didn’t know where else to look. Maybe he’d just missed her. Maybe she’d gone looking for him.
He doubted it.
Mer had a soft heart but a good chin. He’d dealt her some blows, and she’d still been standing. She wouldn’t be the one to come looking for forgiveness. He’d stormed out. He would have to storm back in. Her phone rang and rang.
“Come on, Mer,” he whispered. “Pick up. Don’t ignore me.”
A tapping on his window had him flinging the phone across the front seat.
“Shit!” he cursed, startled. A grizzled face peered at him through the window, palm pressed to the glass, a tentative smile revealing broken teeth.
“Noah?” the man said. “Please don’t be afraid. I’m worried about Miss Lopez.”
“Cuddy?” Noah said, his voice calm despite his galloping heart.
The man nodded eagerly. Noah eased his car door open and stepped out, facing the man across the roof of his Subaru. He liked having the distance between them. Plus, the passenger side doors were locked.
“Do you want to be called Cuddy . . . or should I call you something else?”
“Like what?” the man stammered.
“John? Mr. Cutler?”
“Oh.” The man seemed disappointed in the alternatives.
“Isn’t that your name? John Davis Cutler?”
“Yeah. It is. But you can call me Cuddy.”
“You said you were worried about Miss Lopez. Why?”
“She went inside.” He pointed at the salon. “I know she works there. But it’s late. And Miss Cora keeps showing me towels.”
“Towels?” Noah stammered. It was easier to question the towels than the mention of his dead wife.
“It doesn’t make sense. I know. But every time I try to rest—I got a spot in the grass back behind the carwash there. Nobody says a word as long as I clear out before the sun comes up.”
“You try to rest—” Noah prodded.
“Yeah. Every time I try to rest, Miss Cora won’t let me. I close my eyes and all I see are stacks of white towels. I wish I had some,” he said sadly. “Whenever Miss Lopez wraps my head in a towel, it makes me feel better.”
“Cuddy?” Noah pressed, trying to be patient even as his pulse jangled.
“Miss Lopez is nice to me,” Cuddy whispered. “I’m worried about her.”
“Why would she—Cora—show you towels? And why would that make you worry?” Noah asked.
“The dead don’t speak. Not to me, at least. They show me pictures,” Cuddy said, apologetic.
Noah grunted. It was exactly what Moses had said.
“They aren’t very good at communicating—or maybe I’m just not good at understanding,” Cuddy muttered.
“You saw Mercedes go in the salon? When?”
“I’m not good with time, Noah.”
“Tonight? She went in tonight?”
“Yes. Tonight,” Cuddy affirmed.
“Before I came?”
“Yeah. She parked somewhere else. She walked from somewhere and went inside. A little while later, you drove by.”
As Noah watched, a dark truck pulled up in front of the salon, and Cuddy started to back away, obscuring himself in the shadows.
“You d
on’t want to let that one see you, Noah,” Cuddy warned. “Get back in your car.”
The pumps in front of the gas station were well lit, but the corner where the snow cone shack stood was dark and partially obscured by two tall pines. Noah’s car was dark, and his lights were off, but sensing Cuddy’s distress, he slid back behind the wheel of his car and watched as Keegan Tate and another man stepped out of the truck and scanned the street as they approached Maven’s entrance. Keegan unlocked the front door and looked around like he was uncomfortable about something. The man with him urged him inside and the door swung closed behind them.
Cuddy rapped on the passenger side window. Noah flipped the locks and Cuddy, not missing the subtle invitation, slid into the seat beside him. His knees crowded the glove compartment, and he was unable to recline because of the bulging pack he wore on his back.
“That was Doze,” Cuddy muttered. “I don’t like Doze.”
“Doze?” Noah questioned.
“The guy with Keegan. Everyone’s afraid of him. He never opens his eyes all the way. Looks like he’s half-asleep. People call him Doze.”
“Why would he be with Keegan?”
“Drugs,” Cuddy answered.
“Keegan Tate has a drug problem?”
“Lots of drug problems,” Cuddy muttered. “His biggest drug problem is Doze.”
A few minutes later the front door opened and the man—Doze—exited Maven pushing three Rubbermaid containers, one stacked on top of the other, on a dolly. He didn’t look around, didn’t slow, but continued at a leisurely pace to the truck parked in front of the boutique. Noah watched as he hoisted the bins into the back of the vehicle and then returned to the salon, leaving the dolly sitting on the sidewalk.
“Do you think I could have that dolly?” Cuddy asked after they’d waited several more minutes. “I would like that.”
“Are you sure you saw Mercedes go inside?” Noah pressed. The thought of Mer being inside Maven with Keegan and Doze wasn’t sitting well with him.
“I think so,” Cuddy hedged, worrying his lip.
A few minutes later Doze was back, jangling a set of keys. He opened the driver’s side door of the truck and climbed in. Noah expected to see Keegan exit Maven as well, but Doze wasn’t waiting. He started Keegan’s truck, and without a second look, pulled away from the curb and headed south down the street.
“That’s Keegan’s truck. Where’s Keegan?” Cuddy said. “And why didn’t Doze put that dolly back?”
Noah waited a few minutes more, his eyes glued to the front door. No lights. No Keegan. No Mer. Maybe she wasn’t inside. Poor Cuddy wasn’t giving him much confidence with his talk of towels and his innocent coveting of the abandoned dolly.
“If you call the police . . . will they take me away?” Cuddy said abruptly.
“Why—” he stopped, sniffing the air. “Do you smell smoke?” Noah hissed.
Cuddy sniffed the air too, and then sniffed at his clothes. “I always smell like smoke.”
Noah was out of the Subaru and running across the street before Cuddy even managed to entangle himself from the front seat. Noah wrenched on the door of the salon, but it was locked. He pushed his face to the glass, peering into the gloom, trying to see what was happening inside.
Cuddy was suddenly there beside him, his face pressed to the window, hands framing his eyes.
“Miss Cora is here,” Cuddy wailed, making the hair stand up on Noah’s neck. “I can see her inside.”
“What the hell?” Noah hissed. His instincts were screaming, and a red glow had begun to glimmer from deep in the store. It was on fire, and Keegan Tate had gone inside and he had not come out. That much Noah knew.
“I need a rock. Lots of rocks. Or maybe just a really big rock. Yeah, a really big rock,” Cuddy mumbled, shrugging out of his black backpack.
Noah eyed the enormous rock Cuddy pulled from the depths. “I’ve been feeling extra floaty lately,” he explained, self-conscious. Without warning, he heaved it through the glass.
“Was that wrong, Noah? It didn’t feel wrong,” Cuddy worried.
Noah picked up Cuddy’s backpack, still brimming with an assortment of rocks, and zipped it closed. He swung it at the window, clearing away the shards. Smoke billowed out around them. Handing Cuddy the backpack, he grabbed the man by his shoulders.
“I need you to go back to my car, find my phone, and call 911. Tell them there’s a fire at Maven Salon. I need your help, Cuddy.”
“But . . . I can’t talk to the police,” Cuddy stammered. “I moved the car. I moved the car so Keegan wouldn’t take the baby. But they won’t believe me.”
“None of that matters now. I need you to call the police, and then wait for them. Wait for me. Don’t go inside the salon!”
“But Mercedes is in there. I know it. Miss Cora is with her, but it’s hard to breathe,” Cuddy wailed.
Noah didn’t want to believe him. He wanted to put a hand over Cuddy’s mouth and tell him to shut up, to stop scaring the shit out of him.
But he did believe him.
And that belief meant Mercedes was inside a burning building and Keegan Tate was unaccounted for.
“Call 911, Cuddy!” Noah demanded, and without waiting to see if Cuddy obeyed him, stepped through the gaping hole they’d made in the glass.
The smoke was so thick he pulled his T-shirt up over his nose and mouth and ran forward, looking for signs of life. The building was old, but the surfaces were stone and glass and faux wood floors. Ceramic sinks and metal chairs were all less flammable than the ceilings, and the flames had traveled upward, licking up the more incendiary surfaces. Noah felt for the row of sinks he knew should be just to his right and found the nozzled end of a long hose. Turning the water on full he doused the area around him, soaking himself and everything within range.
“Mercedes!” he roared. The back wall was on fire, and the flames had climbed to the ceiling tiles. On the other side of the wall was the stockroom—the stockroom would be full of accelerants—and beyond that, the rear exit that led to the employee parking on one side and the warehouse/Cross-fit gym on the other. The locker room and a row of smaller rooms for waxing, facials, and massage were to the right, just across the hall from the stockroom.
“Mercedes,” he shouted again. He could smell hairspray and something else. He’d smelled it in the hospital in Kabul. Burnt flesh.
“Oh no,” he groaned, choking. “Mercedes! Where are you?”
He stumbled forward several steps, trying to see through the roiling waves. He would never find her. She could be lying five feet away, and he would never see her.
Suddenly smoke became form, the flames to his right becoming the streaming hair of his late wife.
“Cora?” he whispered, and for a moment he considered that he was already too late, that he’d slipped from one dimension to the next without even realizing it. She beckoned him forward and he followed. She glimmered and shifted, and he took several more steps, tripping over something—someone—crumpled in his path. He sank to his hands and knees, the air clearer closer to the floor, and found Mercedes, her hair lank and soaked in blood, her white blouse black with it. With a cry of both horror and relief, he scooped her up in his arms and turned toward the front of the salon, moving as fast as his oxygen-starved lungs would allow, begging Mercedes to hold on even as he choked and clutched her still form to his chest. He staggered through the smoke, the distance to the entrance feeling like a city block. He fell against the front doors, only to have them wrenched open by a fireman on the other side.
“Anyone else inside?” the fireman shouted, reaching for Mercedes. Noah clutched her, unwilling to release her, as he turned his head and peered through the gloom, looking for Cora.
“Anyone else?” the fireman repeated.
“I don’t know,” Noah said. “I don’t know.”
“We’re going to get you and the lady to a hospital, okay?” the fireman said. “Can you tell me your name?”
“I need to stay with her,” Noah rasped.
“We’ll do our best, okay?”
Then ambulance workers were running toward him, a gurney between them, and Noah relinquished Mercedes to the professionals. She was breathing on her own and her pulse was steady—he heard that much—but she was unconscious. They slid an oxygen mask over her head, and before Noah knew it, they were slipping one over his head as well.
“It’s for the smoke inhalation. We treat it with oxygen. Just breathe deep, man. You can sit up here by the lady. We’re going to get you guys to the hospital.”
Noah lifted the mask, needing to check on Cuddy. “There was another man here. Did you see him?”
“We got him. He tried to go inside—he was the one who told us you were there—but we kept him back. There’s another ambulance pulling up now. We’ll make sure he gets checked out. Now put the mask back on.”
Mer was intubated en route, and Noah closed his eyes, gripped her hand, and prayed that she wouldn’t leave him. She didn’t appear burned—miraculously—and her color was rapidly improving, and as they pulled into the emergency room entrance, she opened her eyes and looked at him.
* * *
Noah was treated for smoke inhalation in the ER at the University of Utah, and released hours later with medicine to ease his raw throat and his pounding head. Mercedes had been immediately admitted and undergone a series of tests and treatments. He’d called Alma and Heather, who’d come at once, with Gia in tow. Alma had stayed with Mercedes, Heather, upon seeing that he would be just fine, took poor Gia back home, and Noah, still grimy, his clothes foul with smoke, found his way to Mercedes’s bedside. She opened her eyes and lifted her hand in greeting. They’d removed the tube from her throat, but when she tried to speak, Alma shushed her.
“Doctor says no, Mercedes. Your throat needs to heal.”
Mercedes kept her hand extended, and Noah sank into a chair beside her bed, taking it and pressing his lips to her palm, needing to tell her how sorry he was, how much he loved her, and how scared he’d been. Alma stood, rounding the bed to reach him. She ran a hand over his filthy hair, kissed his cheeks like he was precious to her, and whispered her gratitude.