19
" Didn’t you ever notice that whatever you wanted or whatever you set out to do, Cora wanted to do it too?” Noah asked.
“She wasn’t like that.”
“She was, Mer. And it’s okay to admit it. One of the hardest things about Cora dying is that everyone wants to erase her—the real Cora. They talk about her as though she were perfect. She wasn’t. ‘Don’t talk ill of the dead,’ people say. But if we aren’t truthful about who our loved ones were, then we aren’t really remembering them. We’re creating someone who didn’t exist. Cora loved you. She loved me. But what she did was not okay. And I’m pissed off about it.”
Mercedes reeled back, stunned. “Geez, Noah. Tell me how you really feel. She still deserves our compassion,” she rebuked.
He nodded. “Everyone deserves compassion. And I know suicide isn’t always a conscious act. Most of the time it’s sheer desperation. It’s a moment of weakness that we can’t come back from. But regardless of illness or weakness, if we don’t own our actions and don’t demand that others own theirs, then what’s the point? We might as well give up now. We have to expect better of ourselves. We have to. I expect more of my patients, and when I expect more—lovingly, patiently—they tend to rise to that expectation. Maybe not all the way up, but they rise. They improve because I believe they can, and I believe they must. My mom was sick. But she didn’t try hard enough to get better. She found a way to cope—and that’s important—but she never varied from it. Life has to be more than coping. It has to be.”
Mercedes nodded slowly, her eyes clinging to his impassioned face. She’d struck a nerve, and he wasn’t finished.
“I know it’s not something we’re supposed to say. We’re supposed to be all-loving and all-compassionate all the time. But sometimes the things we aren’t supposed to say are the truths that keep us sane, that tether us to reality, that help us move the hell on! I know some of my colleagues would be shocked to hear it. But pressure—whether it’s the pressure of society, or the pressure of responsibility, or the pressure that comes with being loved and being needed—isn’t always a bad thing. You’ve heard the cliché about pressure and diamonds. It’s a cliché because it’s true. Pressure sometimes begets beautiful things.”
Mercedes was silent, studying his handsome face, his tight shoulders, and his clenched fists. He was weary, that much was obvious, but he wasn’t wrong.
“Begets?” she asked, a twinkle in her eye.
He rolled his eyes. “You know damn well what beget means.”
“In the Bible, beget means to give birth to. I wouldn’t mind giving birth to a diamond,” she mused.
“You ruin all my best lectures.”
There was silence from the kitchen. Silence was not good.
“Gia?” Noah called.
“What, Daddy?” she answered sweetly.
“Are you pooping in your new princess panties?”
“No. Poopin’ in box.”
“What box?” His voice rose in horror.
“Kitty box.”
Noah was on his feet, racing toward the kitchen. Mercedes followed.
Gia was naked—her Cinderella panties abandoned in the middle of the floor—and perched above the new litter box.
“No!” Noah roared in horror, scooping her up and marching to the toilet.
“Maybe it won’t be a turd, Noah. Maybe Gia will beget a diamond,” Mercedes chirped, trying not to laugh.
“I blame you, Mer!” he called from the bathroom. “She was almost potty-trained, and now she wants to be a cat! "
― Amy Harmon , The Smallest Part
