A little Coco Teacher!AU ficlet for the folks out there starving for some good Rivera family fluff. For @im-fairly-whittyand@slusheeduck who have been working super hard and deserve rest
As well meaning as the boy could be, he was a magnet for trouble. Whether it was the occasional squabble with other kids at school, butting heads with a member of his own family, or simply getting himself into foolhardy situations– usually involving anything and everything musical– Miguel couldn’t count on both hands how many times he’d been grounded in his twelve years. Most of those times, he’d believed grounding had been an unfair consequence, that he had not been at fault.
But this time, Miguel did not argue. Did not whine about the injustice of it. Did not even bat an eye.
There were worse fates than facing an old fashioned Rivera-Brand Time Out.
“You know the drill, mijo,” said Enrique, Miguel’s papá, “No TV, no futbol, no Lucha Libre, no mu–”
“No music,” Miguel nodded, finishing his papá’s words when Enrique could not, as if rehearsed. Music was a given on being forbidden in the Rivera household, whether Miguel as punished or not.
But a small spark of something crossed his papá’s face. His father seemed to falter.
“…Well…” Enrique cleared his throat into his hand, eyes training to Mamá Coco’s bedroom door. He could hear his mother, Abuelita Elena, gushing to her mother, reliving memories that none of the other Riveras believed Coco could still recall. Hearing his mama be so happy, it was a sound he had not heard in many years, not unless it had to do with overcoming an exceedingly difficult shoe order. “No music… unless you intend on singing to Mamá Coco again.”
Miguel’s face, though slightly ashen and salt caked from dried tears, lit up. He sniffled and wiped his face, coughing a bit in spite of himself, overcome with relief.
The boy looked ready to topple over, as one would expect from a young preteen spending an entire night galavanting off to… Enrique had no idea where, but he did not feel the need to dwell on it. The idea of Miguel being alone on a holiday meant to be spent with your familia left him feeling like a rock was lodged in his stomach. A rather spiky one at that.
“A month sounds fair,” said Miguel, voice cracking from emotional fatigue, Enrique assumed.
“…How about just a couple weeks?” said Enrique, patting Miguel’s shoulder, “One week if you’re good.”
Miguel almost laughed as he stumbled into Enrique’s side, making the man jump. He caught Miguel and pulled him into a hug, to which his son gladly, if weakly returned. Enrique felt his chest tighten, trying his best not to imagine all that Miguel had gone through in the past twelve hours. Though his son had refused to share every single detail of all that had transpired during Dia de los Muertos, he’d told Enrique that he’d spent it in De la Cruz’s tomb. A night in the cemetery was no place for a child, especially with the chill in the November air, and–
And…
Was Miguel shaking?
“Mijo?” Enrique said, ruffling his son’s hair, eyebrows furrowing at how warm his son’s head felt. Was he running a fever? “You know we’re not angry at you anymore, yeah? Is everything ok?”
“J-just,” Miguel croaked, smiling tiredly up at his face as he continued to cling. Miguel hadn’t clung to Enrique since he was young enough to believe in monsters under his bed, to cry over being teased by his older cousins. And he was shaking. “A little c-c-cold. And t-tired.”
“Well no wonder…” sad Enrique, feeling the light fabric of Miguel’s shirt, “You’re soaked to the skin and– mijo? What happened to your jacket? The red one you were so fond of?”
Miguel choked on his words. For a moment, Enrique was worried he would run again, and his heart fell. Miguel hugged him tightly and his his face.
“I-I lost it, papá,” said Miguel, shakily.
“Where?”
“In the… I-In the graveyard?”
Enrique gave Miguel a look that only a father could give to a wayward son. It was a pretty darn good one too, as the boy was having a hard time keeping eye contact.
“S-sorry.”
Enrique opened his mouth to argue, to scold Miguel for telling a lie, and a rather poor one to boot. To claim that, as small as Santa Cecilia was, the cemetery was hardly a big enough place to lose a jacket. To tell Enrique the truth, the whole truth.
But one look at his son, who had already gone through enough stress from their family’s overbearing superstitions of music, who had openly cried and buried his face into his papá’s chest upon returning home (mind you, after nearly scaring him and his mother to death), who had returned Mamá Coco’s long-buried memories of a man who everyone, even Elena had grossly misunderstood, and all the fight to scold his boy had flown out of him. Enrique could only sigh, left to realize just how tired he felt after a full night of searching for his son.
“Come on, mijo,” said Enrique, gently rubbing Miguel’s back and leading him to the extended household that he and his brother’s family shared, all of it interwoven with the Rivera workshop. “Let’s get you to bed.”
“Do–” Miguel coughed, roughly, then sniffled. “D-don’t I need t’get re–ready for school?”
“I think after the night you’ve had, you can afford to miss one day,” said Enrique. “Besides, you think we’re about to let you out of our sight after pulling this stunt?”
Miguel actually laughed, surprising Enrique, the snickering only interrupted by more coughs.
“I-I guess not, papá.”
Miguel’s room was as sparsely furnished as the rest of the Rivera household. A single bed, a chest of drawers, some photos on the wall of small, sweet moments with friends and family. In spite of the lack of furniture, it was still very much Miguel.
Dirty clothes littered the floor in spite of his mamá’s many attempts to get the boy to clean his room. Posters of Miguel’s favorite luchadores were taped to the wall, action figures strewn about, bed left unmade– and now that Enrique was looking with a more aware, critical eye, he spotted a borrowed toolbox under Miguel’s bed, haphazardly hidden by unmade sheets. Enrique tried not to imagine what the boy intended on using it for, though it probably had something to do with the makeshift white guitar his son had frankensteined under his family’s nose. The boy’s wastebasket was also filled with crumpled pieces of paper, a blank notepad and pen on his bedside table.
Trying to put thoughts of guitars and graveyards out of his mind, Enrique led Miguel to his bed, quickly unmaking and remaking it before helping his son climb in. Dios, the boy looked beat. He hadn’t even bothered to take his shoes off.
“Are you sure you’re just tired, mijo?” said Enrique, placing the back of his hand on Miguel’s forehead, pushing the boy’s matted hair from his face. He felt far too warm.
“Mmmhmm,” said Miguel, barely awake. He was already burying his face into his pillow.
“Miguel?” said Enrique. “At least change into some new clothes before going to bed, huh?”
“Sí, papá…”
“…Miguel?
“…”
Aaaaaand the boy was out.
For a moment, the exhaustion of the night crept up on the father, and poor Enrique was so sorely tempted to simply turn around and call it a day. But, well, a father was a father, and no matter how much he knew Miguel would complain about being fussed over, he was not about to let his boy sleep in damp clothes from yesterday.
For the first time in many years, Enrique helped Miguel untie his shoes and change his clothes. He even helped Miguel under the covers and tucked him in, giving the boy’s dirty hair a tousle. In spite of nearly turning thirteen, Enrique had almost forgotten how young his boy still was. So young and foolish and careless…
And very brave. Brave enough to do what neither he, nor Berto, nor Gloria nor any of the Rivera men or women had ever managed to do in their longer lifetimes. Change Elena’s mind, and make Mamá Coco smile like the sun.
Ah, yes. He could reprimand the boy about his carelessness later. For now, Miguel needed rest. The entire family did. He was grateful that most businesses were closed following Dia de los Muertos, as Enrique planned on spending the next few hours surrounded by his loved ones, soaking in the glow that could only have been described as a miracle.
As Enrique made his way back to the family’s hacienda, a familiar stray Xolo shambled its way clumsily across the courtyard, covered in stray marigold petals and yapping up a storm. His enthusiasm nearly gave poor Carmen a heart attack. Enrique recognized the pooch immediately as the raggamuffin mutt who followed Miguel around town, begging for scraps. The boy’s very own clumsy shadow.
Before Enrique could think to shoo the Xolo away, he heard the telltale whap of a chancla smacking a palm, and froze. He noticed movement new Mama Coco’s room and turned to find his seething, broiling mother, a petrified Berto standing right behind her. Their childhood had taught the Rivera men well, not to stand between their mother and the object of her wrath when a shoe was within reach.
“You,” growled Elena, pointing her chancla at the hairless mutt.
Dante barked, lips pulled back in a smile, long tongue lolling out in complete innocence. The poor mutt apparently could not see his end staring him right in the muzzle.
Elena marched right up to the pooch, hands on her hips, and glared down at the poor, unsuspecting dog.
Dante, as Miguel had named him, wagged his tail, standing at attention (or… at least as attentive as one canine would look with his long tongue nearly hanging to the ground).
“And just where have you been, eh?” said Elena. “Your boy goes missing for a full night and what help were you? Pah! Rolling around in some trashcan all night, I bet.”
Dante tilted his head, and for a moment Enrique thought that the pooch had finally grown some sense and was about to book it to the nearest alley. But then the Xolo simply snorted in response, and trudged forward to lean heavily into Elena’s legs, leaving dust and drool all over her skirt and apron. Enrique saw Berto cross himself, honestly looking afraid for the dog’s life.
But when mamá did not move to slap him with her shoe, Enrique knew that Berto had nothing to fear. The exhaustion, both emotional and physical, washed over her face, and she put the shoe away. Enrique almost laughed. It was not often that his strict mother’s heart was melted and her weapon shieved, but perhaps in light of recent events, poor Elena’s heart had finally lost some hardness.
Dante’s head swiveled the door leading to Miguel’s room and yapped merrily, oblivious to Elena’s frustration.
She sighed and nodded.
“Go make yourself useful,” said Elena, patting Dante’s head and motioning to the door. “Keep that boy company, mutt.”
Though Enrique knew better than to assume that this dimwitted dog could understand anything beyond the words “food” and “fetch”, Dante pounced in place, barked, and dashed off to Miguel’s room. Like a dutiful soldier.
The family collectively winced when they heard a crash, possibly of the dog running right into a wall.
A very graceless, clumsy… dutiful soldier.
—–
Héctor was no stranger to waking up in peculiar places.
The life of a vagabond had warrented him as many freedoms as it had setbacks. No home real home meant no real curfew. No one to tell him where to go or how to dress led to the opportunities to wander and cause trouble to his heart’s content. No one to look out for him, to keep him in mind, to care for his well being and safety led to night after night, drinking to (ha) forget. No one to tell him to stop when things went too far.
He couldn’t count on both boney hands how many bars he’d been thrown out of. How many gutters he’d awoken next to. How many outraged unfortunate neighbors had shooed him off of their front steps with brooms, or porches with spatulas, or window sills with chanclas (Héctor still had no idea how he’d gotten into Leon Hernandez’s window ledge hanging garden, but he could only assume that the empty tequila bottle lodged in his ribcage had everything to do with it).
But this time was different. This time, Héctor did not awaken to a cork painfully lodged in his eye socket or the smell of booze on his bones. He was not lying prone, held together by his suspenders and luck on the far edge of town. No one was screeching at him to get lost, to get off their property. From the smells, or rather– the lack of smells, he did not think he was even in his ramshackle hut in Shantytown.
He was… somewhere warm. Some place soft. A place that held no intent on kicking him to the curb or hauling him off by his bootstraps. Sounds were muffled and quiet, though he could hear footsteps come and go past whatever room he was in. They echoed faintly, making him wonder how big the room was or how high the ceilings were. He could faintly feel sunbeams gently falling over his side, from a window perhaps? It all felt strangely, almost achingly familiar, like the room he and Imelda had shared when he was still alive–
Ah.
Yes.
So that explained it. He was dreaming of Santa Cecilia again.
He always did after Dia de los Muertos. Héctor couldn’t quite remember a time he did not dream of his hometown, but the dreams that followed him after the holiday, usually in a dazed, drunken stupor, were the ones that acted like the strongest balm. If he could not cross the bridge of orange petals, stand on the earth with his own two feet, small the oh so missed scents of tarragon, flowers, earth and stone– and yes, even the livestock– then by god, he could at least pretend. Pretend that everything had been a dream, that one day he would awake in his own bed to the sleeping face of his young wife, to the faint giggling of a little girl padding her way across the covers, the welcome sights and smells and sounds of home.
Héctor smiled, settling deeper into the covers.
Up a bit early today, aren’t we, mija? He wanted to say.
Tengo hambre, papa! Coco would whine.
He could almost feel her settle on his chest, gently shake him with her small hands. He wanted to reach up and cup her face, but his arms refused to move. Too tired. Too worn from the horrible, horrible nightmare.
Well, we cannot have that, a voice would say to his left.
Héctor felt his heart lift when something warm pressed up close to his side, smelling of sleep and cat hair and chicken feathers. No matter how often Imelda scrubbed, she would never be fully rid of the smells of a farm, as neither would Héctor of wood, stale clothes, ink and parchment. The smells of professions stuck with you that way, but Héctor did not mind. He preferred cats anyway.
How about huevos rancheros? Imelda would say.
Huevos! Huevos! Huevos! Coco would cheered, jumping up and down on Héctor and shaking him to more wakefulness.
Díos, this is some dream, Héctor thought. For a moment, he could feel something very heavy, shaking his chest. Pressing down. Getting heavier. How much had Coco grown in the past months he’d been gone?
Héctor tried to move his arms to lift Coco off of him, but they remained pinned to his sides. The pressing feeling was starting to spread to the rest of his body, keeping him rooted in place. Almost as if he were trapped under a rock, rather than wrapped in tight, clean sheets. The pressing turned to burning, burning in his chest and throat, and Héctor felt panic rise in him.
Why couldn’t he move? What was going on? Where was he?
The warmth from before, once sweet and caressing, turned to stifling, suffocating. Héctor couldn’t move, couldn’t breath. Almost as if…
Almost as if her were buried, deep underground. As if he were in a grave.
No.
No no no, please no.
He could not be dead. He was so close, dreaming sweetly of breakfast and tiny hands and smiles and miles away from the nightmare of the truth. That his best friend from childhood, his hermano had taken his life, that he’d spent so many decades alone in death. That Imelda had died angry and Coco had lived without knowing a father. That he’d failed time and time again to return to the small town he’d dreamt of returning to, time and time again.
Héctor wanted to scream, but his aching throat would not let him. He tried to open his mouth, to call for help, but the burning only became worse, and when he coughed, he felt the pressing intensify. His arms, so heavy and aching, could not move, and now entire body felt like it was on fire. His eyes felt as though they’d been glued shut, his head began to pound, and the soft haze of sleep gave way to dizziness. Were if not for the fact that he lacked a stomach, Héctor was certain he was going to vomit.
He felt something in his chest– a small rib bone, fractured– slip out of place, and choked out something that almost sounded like a word. His throat exploded in pain, and he prayed for anything to end this nightmare. Even the Final Death would have been a mercy.
“PEPITA!”
A voice screeched, reaching Héctor through the wave of pain that had drenched him, and his eyes finally flew open. He was met with blindingly brilliant colors, greens and reds and oranges, far too dazzling for the first sight of his streaming eyes (when had he started crying?). But the most brilliant were the yellow, gleaming, judging eyes of an alebrije. Imelda’s alebrije, large, commanding, terrifying, and lying completely on top of him.
“Get off of him!”
The alebrije’s large head perked and swiveled, cat-like at the skeleton standing in the doorway. Héctor almost didn’t recognize her, but even with her hair down in a single braid, and her regal purple gown exchanged for a white, embroidered camisa and red skirt, there was no mistaking Imelda Rivera, in all of her enraged glory. She was covered in leather shavings and wearing a pair of work gloves, and in one gloved hand, she shook an unfinished boot at the large creature, like a soldadera brandishing a sword.
“Shoo! Shoo! ¡Hechate!” Imela screech, “Get down, right now!”
With a defiant, almost annoyed rumbling growl, the spirit guide cowed under her mistress’s anger (the shoe, in particular), and crawled off of Héctor. The burning feeling finally gave way, and he took a deep breath– but he regretted it almost immediately, as the cool morning air scratched and tore at his throat in a way he had not felt since living– and was launched into a whooping cough.
Imelda dropped her shoe and was at his side in an instant. He felt her small hand gently pressed to his skull, pushing his matted hair away from his face. Her cool bones were a relieve against his skull, which felt as though someone had used it for a spirited game of futbol.
“Im–” He croaked, still hacking up a lung he did not posess, “Imelda–ha–?”
“Shhh, shh, wait for it to pass,” Imelda instructed, strict, yet tenderly. “Breath, breath…”
Once he’d finished giving his ribs a thorough workout, Héctor tried taking smaller, more even breaths. Díos, he felt awful. Like that time when he was a young boy, and caught a terrible cough from playing in the rain. He felt as though his nasal cavity had been stoppered, and his ribcage and the vertebrae along his neck burned, as if he’d swallowed several habañeros. The rest of his body hurt when he tried to move it, like many thousands of pins and needles poking his bones from the inside out, and everything else felt so heavy and hazy. Had he still been able to, he was certain he’d be sweating through the soft bed sheets he’d been wrapped up in.
“There. Easy, muchacho, easy,” Imelda crooned, placing her other hand on his chest.
He wanted to move his hand on top of her, but found he could not. Whether this was because of the pain or because his instincts still warranted trepidation with romantic contact with her, he had no clue. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d been cared for with such tenderness, and instead leaned his face into her other hand when she moved it to his cheekbone. He tried to focus on breathing, not sure what to say to his former beloved. Not sure he even could say anything with his throat feeling all torn to shreds.
Imelda, skull pinched in fretfulness, annoyance, and the faintest of fondness, snapped her head at Pepita and pointed at her, accusingly.
“I told you to keep an eye on him, not smother him!” she snapped. “You could have broken a bone. Ay, Díos mio, as if he doesn’t have enough of those!”
Pepita growled again, and Héctor could swear he heard something akin to a mewl.
“Don’t apologize to me!” said Imelda, “I’m not the one who was crushed under three hundred fifty pounds of fur and feathers!”
Pepita’s ears fell back. She lied down, bodily on the ground– and it was then that Héctor realized that the room must’ve had a rather high ceiling to accommodate such a large creature– and she rolled onto her back. She growled in a loud, purposeful purr. Héctor wished so desperately that he could laugh at the alebrije’s attempts of endearing herself Imelda, all of its intimidating swagger flung out the window.
“Don’t you try to butter me up,” said Imelda. “It never works.”
Pepita purred louder.
“Don’t,” Imelda warned.
Pepita purred louder.
“Pepita!” Imelda snapped, though it was clear that her resolve was slipping.
The urge to laugh at the absurdity of the scene, a small, stern woman treating such an imposing creature as one would a housecat, all became too much for Héctor and he choked out a laugh– one that sent him into another painful fit of coughs.
Imelda fell silent, all of her anger snuffed out, and with a sigh, she simply shooed Pepita to the veranda– with a perch for some time-out time– and returned to Héctor’s side. She smoothed out the sheets as she waited for him to settle, the poor man groaning in pain once the coughs subsided.
“What…” Héctor wheezed, voice rougher than sandpaper and almost gone, “What ‘appened? Where… where’m–?”
“Don’t talk,” said Imelda, “Save your strength. Here.”
Previously unnoticed, Héctor watched Imelda as she turned to a table next to the large twin bed, and poured water from a metal pitcher into a clean white cloth. She wrung it out over a pan and then gently placed it over his brow bone. The coolness eased the throbbing headache, and he sighed in relief, glass eyes fluttering closed.
He felt her hand press to his cheekbone once more, and pressed his face into it with more certainty than before. Were it not for the ache in his bones and the fever, feeling her run a thumb along the ridge where his upper jaw met his lower one would have felt like heaven.
“Thank you,” he croaked.
“Mmmm,” Imelda hummed, softly.
A silence fell over the both of them, and Héctor simply waited it out. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to be said, but he knew better than to interrupt the silence. For everything that Héctor wanted to tell Imelda, he could feel that she had so much more to say.
“You look awful,” said Imelda, though she held no bite in her voice, as if stating a fact rather than making a scathing remark. “How do you feel?”
Héctor tried to speak, but his voice could barely break a whisper. Why did everything hurt so much?
“Like death warmed over,” he said.
“That’s not funny,” said Imelda. She sounded angry. \
“Sorry,” said Héctor, smiling in spite of himself, “But it’s the truth.”
His smile fell when he felt thin, warm bones carefully encircling him. He opened his eyes and found himself looking at the side of Imelda’s head, which she was pressing into his collar bone like a lost child to her mother’s skirt. Her boney fingers clenched the sheets. She was shaking.
“Imelda–?” Héctor croaked, the space in his ribcage where his heart would be giving a fearful jerk.
“You were gone, idiota,” Imelda said into the sheets. Héctor could not see her face, and he was thankful. From the sound of her voice, broken and forcing itself to be held together, would have been worse than any of the pain he felt right now. “You almost… you were dust.”
Héctor’s eyes widened. Memories from before were fuzzy, warped, fantastical and difficult to grasp, like smoke. He recounted… a boy, a small, living with a smart mouth, a dog, a competition, Ernesto. Things trickling back in, little by little, until Héctor finally recalled the empty, cold feeling settling over his bones and drawing all of his strength from him. Of being tired. Of feeling something he’d feared for nearly a century.
“The… the Final Death?”
“The Final Death,” said Imelda. She did not move from the embrace, nor did she stop shaking.
And that’s when everything fell back in a rush. Miguel and the photo, the Sunrise Spectacular, Imelda’s singing, nearly losing his little chamaco to a great fall, and then sending the boy home just in the nick of time. The creeping emptiness overtaking his bones, being unable to move in Imelda’s tight, desperate embrace, and everything going white.
“Oh…” Héctor croaked, numb with shock. He’d survived. Somehow, some way, his wreckless little great-great-grandson had resurrected the memory of the wayward musician from his pobrecita.
Just as he was about to become dust in his poor wife’s arms.
Héctor’s arms ached to return her embrace, but alas they still would not listen. He could only settle for pressing his face against hers, grateful that their cheekbones somehow messed together, and did not clack. They fit, like a couple puzzle pieces, and Héctor only focused on Imelda’s and his own breathing. This feeling, this fitting, gave him a whole new feeling, not one of emptiness of burning or aching, but a warm, melancholy belonging.
For the first time in so long, it almost felt like home. Not just a pretend kind from one of his dreams, but a safe, warm, home.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” he croaked.
“I know,” said Imelda, her voice tight and muffled.
“I… I think I’m going to be saying that a lot,” he said, almost laughing, “I have a lot to be sorry for.”
“Don’t,” she said, settling deeper into the hug. Héctor nuzzled her hair, and was overjoyed beyond words to realize that she still smelled of cat hair and chicken feathers, in spite of the overpowering leather from her shoemaking. “You’ve apologized enough. Just be quiet and let me…”
Héctor did not understand what she meant at first, but when he felt her head move, the strange sensation of teeth and jaw clacking gently against his temple, Héctor went stiff.
She’d kissed him. She’d swallowed her pride, her anger, her fear, all of the many emotions his beloved had felt so strongly in life and death, and kissed him.
He hadn’t been kissed since he left home.
“Don’t you ever,” said Imelda, her voice low, threatening, with a touch of possessiveness, “Leave home again.”
Imelda sighed and settled back into the hug, her shaking finally subsided. Héctor, breathless, staring wide eyed at the ceiling above him, wished the moment could last for eternity. He fought as hard as he could against the wave of relief, of utter exhaustion as it creeped its way through him, the warmth of the embrace lulling him. He couldn’t fight it off forever, but damn if he wouldn’t try.
“Claro… I’d like to see someone… try to make me leave again,” he breathed, nestling into the feeling as exhaustion finally took him.
The last thing he heard from Imelda humming a soft tune, and Pepita purring loudly in time to her song from her perch on the veranda.
And for once, he needed not dream of returning home.
Summary: Even Death itself can’t help but love a happy ending.
—–
(Warning: There be spoilers, and, obviously, mentions of death and heavy subject material. Scroll to the bottom to see author’s notes.)
—–
“Miguel! It’s almost sunrise!”
A damning fleck of yellow breached the horizon of the afterlife, marring the purples and blues with newfound shades.
“No no no!” The young boy cried. He was turning pale as parchment, his skull showing through as his life began to fade away. “I-I can’t leave you!”
Yellowed, dry, boney hands shook as they weakly pressed to Miguel’s cheek, pushing the boy’s hair out of his distressed face. Miguel was wracked with sobs. He’d failed him, he’d failed his family. He’d failed Hector.
“I promised you I’d put your photo up! I’d-I’d p-promised you’d see Coco–!”
“We’re both out of time, mijo–” Hector gasped as the forgetting tore at him, skull drawn in pain.
“Oh no– noo!” Miguel cried, losing his own life just as fast as Hector, practically a complete skeleton. But he didn’t care. “She can’t forget you!”
“I just wanted her to know… that I loved her.”
Ignoring the waves of emptiness taking their toll, the former musician retrieved his petal, barely having the strength to hold it up. He felt small, firm hands grasp around it, Imelda’s.
“You have our blessing, Miguel,” Hector said, shaking so badly he could barely feel how much Imelda’s shook.
The marigold shimmered.
“No conditions,” said Imelda, her voice full of warmth and sorrow.
“No! P-Papa Hector!! Please!!!”
Papa… Hector. The musician held onto that. It had been a very, very long time since he’d been called such a word. He’d forgotten– hah, ironically– how much he’d missed it.
“No!” Miguel begged, pleaded, prayed. “No no no!”
“Go home,” he breathed, like a final wish, trying his best to smile, to calm his newfound friend, ease his great-great-grandson’s grief.
“I promise! I-I won’t let Coco forget you–!”
And just like that, with the lovers’ blessed petal pressed to Miguel’s chest, the boy gasped and was gone, leaving a shower of marigolds in his wake. Back to the land of the living, just in time for sunrise.
Safe. The boy was safe. The curse was broken.
“Thank god,” Hector said, smiling weakly.
He let his hand go limp, too tired to hold it up anymore. Too tired to hold anything upright. He was just. Too tired.
Imelda held it for him, with strength enough for the both of them, despite still being winded from dancing with the villain who killed her husband. Careful not to jostle her former beloved, she pulled him in half of an embrace, rest his skull to her sternum. He felt so cold, so light, and lighter still with every passing, glowing spasm. Like the slightest movement, a simple stray breath would reduce him to dust.
Those damned illuminated seizures– flashes of golden orange and strangled gasps came from the ragged, nearly forgotten skeleton. The brave shoemaker tried to stop her own shaking, Hector’s tremors making her ache in the place her heart would be.
“Hold on, mi cabron estupido,” Imelda said, her voice holding less edge than it usually did. It shook. “Please, hold on.”
“It’s,” said Hector, voice grating like the last grains of sand in an hour glass. Like a guitar string wound far too tight. “It is… not up to me… Imelda…”
La Familia de Rivera could only look on in fearful silence, the souls of their shoes rooting them in place. Would Miguel make it? Would he be able to reach Mama Coco in time? Would Miguel and all that he’d learned in The Land of the Dead be enough to save the forgotten Rivera?
There was nothing that they could do for it now, but watch and wait. And as more time passed, the higher the sun peaked over the horizon, the brighter the world of the dead dazzled in the sunlight, the shallower Hector’s breathing became.
Julio took off his hat in respect, not knowing what to say in the face of his mother-in-law –and father-in-law– looking so lost and broken. The twins followed suit, Oscar looking down and Felipe looking up, both to hide the faintly wet shining in their eyes. Rosita wordlessly crossed herself in prayer, shoulder tensely shaking, trying to hold back tears. Victoria simply stared, quietly placing her hand on Julio’s shoulder. Julio grasped his daughter’s hand, and squeezed it.
Imelda said nothing. She had no need to. Simply placing Hector’s head on her lap, taking his hat, and pushing his matted hair from his unwashed face with the far more gentleness, far more tenderness, far more love than he ever deserved. It said everything.
Seeing a family once so full of life, quips and caring, strengths and support, so distraught over him. Over some vagabond who washed up on their proverbial doorstep on the words of his reckless, wonderful great-great-grandson… To Hector, no sight was more heartbreaking. He couldn’t bear this being the last thing he ever saw.
“You know…” he wheezed, having to try harder to keep his eyes in focus. The world seemed to be melting before his very eyes, like a watercolor painting left in the rain. “This is not… not so bad, really…”
He tried to laugh, but it came poorly timed, as another spasm of golden glow sent him into a coughing fit. Imelda gripped his shoulder, far too tightly, as if she had the strength to overcome forgetting. As if it were enough to keep him here.
Hector tried to breathe, but even the mockery of mimicking the memory of breathing as a dweller in the Land of the Dead began to hurt. The air around him felt too cold. God, he felt so cold.
“I always thought.” He stopped, trying to reach for Imelda’s hand and failing. "That if it… that when it… that– this happened…”
Imelda held it, gripping it so hard it hurt.
“That I would be alone,” he finally admitted. He gripped back as hard as he could, trying to hold on. The cold was turning him numb, his senses beginning to dull. But still he kept trying. Trying so hard to hold on. “That I… I’d screwed up so badly… that I deserved to disappear alone…”
Imelda’s face, so beautiful in life and beautiful still in death, pinched in righteous anger. If Hector had more strength, he would’ve been a lot more vocal about how she was getting dangerously close to breaking his hand in her vice grip.
“You. Never. Deserved this,” said Imelda.
Hector felt his very soul ache through the numbness. There were tears in her eyes. She pulled Hector close, tucking his skull into the fold where her collar bone crossed her shoulder plate. It was surprisingly soft for being made of bone, almost painfully warm, and smelled of shoe leather, citrus and tarragon. It reminded Hector of Santa Cecilia and it made him want to cry.
“I should not have turned you away,” Imelda forced herself to speak, despite the clear heartache in her voice. “I should never have let my grief turn to spite. I… I should have looked for you…”
“I was the one… who ran away…” Hector breathed, his voice barely having the power to go above a whisper. Sounds of the city began to grow faint. He could barely hear his own voice over the rising sound of silence. “I was… the one who… tore you all apart… the- the one who did not come back…”
“But you wanted to!” Imelda wailed, reaching Hector through the white noise. The weaker Hector’s voice became, such greater was her sorrow. Her voice… it was only barely reaching him. The world was starting to blur, the sights and smells and sounds of the Land of the Dead becoming fainter and fainter echoes as Hector’s memory began to fade completely from the mind of his daughter. And still, Hector tried to hold on. “I was aching, lost and angry– but so were you! All you were thinking of, all this time, was Coco! Was of coming home!! So stop… no more…”
The world around Hector became cast in a veil of brilliant yellows and whites and pinks. The sun was high now, far past sunrise into the height of morning. Imelda’s face, marred by sorrow as it was, was transcendently haloed in the light. He wanted so badly to caress her cheekbones and kiss her.
Hector could not move, as the markings’ shimmers turned from spasms to a final, painless, steady glow. Coco had cut the final thread. The world was disappearing around him in a tunnel of white and sunset orange.
“Speak ill of my Hector again and I will do something I might regret,” Imelda sobbed, holding Hector’s hands to her lips.
With the last of his strength leaving him, Hector could only smile.
Her Hector. She called him Her Hector.
“I’m afraid…” he whispered, the glow turning his entire vision white. He felt a sensation of falling, and didn’t fight it. “You won’t get that chance, mi amor.”
And while quietly thanking whatever God was listening for this final act of mercy, this unwarranted forgiveness, the wandering musician finally let go.
The last sounds he heard was the Riveras– his family, he thought, too grateful and sorrowful for words– calling his name.
And everything went white.
—–
Being forgotten was, strangely enough, very forgettable.
A simple decision, painless and light. Like a feather falling free from the wings of an eagle, cascading down, down, down, gently wafting away from the great blue sky and into the ocean, disappearing into the gently bobbing waves of a bay. Almost tenderly caressing as it sunk into the dark depths below.
The wandering soul felt faint echoes around him. Shades of the past from whence came. His life and death flashed before his and and left him, bit by bit.
The few blessed years he knew of his mama and papa. Losing them to The Revolution, and ending up in an orphanage. Playing his mama’s cantandos for the other children and befriending his loud showoff of a friend, Ernesto.
His youth, playing music with the mariachis for scraps, silently yearning, for what he did not know, as he watched families in the plaza pay for bread and spices. Laughing and playing together. Missing his mama.
His young adulthood, earning his keep by playing for weddings and quinceaneras with Ernesto. Playing at Imelda Rivera’s quinceanera, and becoming so captivated when she started to sing to his guitar playing that he barely even noticed when he broke a string.
Falling madly, deeply in love with Imelda, courting her in his own impoverished way, leaving love notes on her doorstep and serenading her almost every night. Not being able to sleep or eat or think of anything aside from her beauty and her voice. Imelda finally inviting the scraggly teen to a night of dinner with her and her family, and falling in love all over again. Working harder than ever to earn his keep, his right to have a family of his own.
Marrying Imelda, taking her last name, and becoming a part of her family in spite of her father’s wishes. Starting his family. Spending all of his earnings on a house of their own. Little Sorraco being born.
His baby girl, his sweet little Coco.
Devoting his life to making her happy, be it with his songs or an endless shower of affection. Never wanting to leave her or his beloved wife’s side, yet constantly being badgered by his best friend about “letting his talents go to waste”. How he should be sharing his gift of songwriting with the world, not just Imelda and Coco.
Promising Imelda he’d return once he’d earned enough money with his songs. Promising Coco he’d write her every chance he got. Promising he’d return home soon.
Soon turned into Days. Days into Months. Many months. Almost a whole year. He’d missed his baby girl’s sixth birthday.
Coco’s letters turned from cherished to desperate. He needed to come home or else he was going to break.
Ernesto argued, but gave in easily. He smiled when they toasted his farewell.
His farewell turned sour.
He fell to the Land of the Dead, hopelessly lost and confused. No one would help him. No one knew him. No one believed in him or ever said they were proud to be his family. Not even his mama and papa could be found, their stories long since lost in the war, Hector far too young to remember them clearly beyond blurs and songs.
Years of loneliness and regrets.
Years of knowing mistakes.
Years of being forgotten, little by little. Piece of him falling and vanishing from the plane.
Years and wishing so desperately, doing everything he could just to tell his beloved family how sorry he was, how much he wanted to be with them again and wish them happiness.
And just when all hope was lost, then came that boy. That little upstart. That stubborn, ungrateful, talented, incredible, caring, wonderful little Chamaco and his hairy sausage of a dog.
His first friend in what felt like a lifetime.
The first one to ever say, no, Grite a los Cielos that he was Proud. Proud to be the family of a penniless, bitter, broken ghost. He could still hear their desperately joyous gritos echoing through the empty cave.
He smiled, despite being merely a soul in a vast emptiness. This kid was not just his amigo, but his family. He’d brought music back into his afterlife, the joy of performing. The joy of friendship. He’d found out the Truth of his Death. And most importantly, even if it were just a picture, he’d brought the wandering soul’s family back to him. He would never get to hold Coco or kiss her little face or sing her their favorite lullaby, but at least he found his family.
After so long, after so many years of falling to pieces, that smart alek had put him back together.
Now that was a real friend.
A comforting blanket of numbness swaddled him as the warm thoughts enveloped his being and left him at the same time, removing the pain from his broken bones and the ceaseless ache in his heart.
The further he fell, the less he felt. He had forgotten everything, his name, his life, his death, little by little, and with forgetting came comfort, warmth, relief, and soon, simple bliss.
What was he doing here?
Where was here?
Who was he?
Did it matter?
…
He knew that the right answer should have been yes and he so, so wanted it to be, the little soul knew… somehow… that that wasn’t true. Somehow, through the pristine white fog and the painless emptiness he felt growing inside him, that in a way it did matter.
Why couldn’t he remember who he was? Was he someone before all of this? Would Coco know?
And somehow, that last question broke him, and the little soul began to weep.
Who was Coco? Why did he remember her? Where was she? Did she miss her papa? Why couldn’t he find his sweet little Coco?
The sobs turned to wails, falling on deaf ears in the emptiness. The lost, sorrowful little soul didn’t understand these questions, but they felt Important. They were all he had in this vast, blank emptiness. This unending and lonely limbo. So he grabbed tightly into them and did not let go, no matter how hard the void tried to pulled them away.
No. No, not Coco. Take everything else away from me but please– not her, not my little Coco.
Please. Please. Please!
“Well, since you asked so politely.”
The soul jumped and stilled. The memory of the beloved child held tightly in the grasp that he did not have, he was consumed by a newfound fear. Not of loss, but of being found. Though he had no more voice of his own, merely thoughts and feelings, no more complex than that of a frightened animal or child, it seemed like Someone– Something– Everything Else in this place did.
He could not see anything but brilliant white, and yet somehow, the voice of a woman, impossibly wise and dry as bone, filled Everything in the Nothing that surrounded him.
Terrified, lost, desperate, he tried to call for the voice. He thanked her, for letting him keep the memory.
“De nada, músico pobrecito.”
Poor musician? Was that what he was? It felt… right. So many things were confusing in this new home of his. He wondered if his old home was this confusing.
“But there is no need to thank me. It seems that you held out just long enough.”
The voice enveloped him, cradled him somehow. It was warm, like an early morning, and for the first time that the soul could remember (not that he could remember much) he felt incredibly comforted. The gentleness reminded him of… of someone. Someone important. Why couldn’t he remember? The thought hurt and made him want to cry again.
“No no no, calm yourself. I know you have been through much, Hector. But your suffering is over.”
Hector… Hec–Hector! That– that was him!
“h-how–” Ay. It hurt to talk. And he sounded muted, warped, like he was underwater. He tried to cough but realized he couldn’t. No throat. “how do you kn-know my–”
“I know everything about you, Hector Rivera.”
The Nothing shifted around Hector, until something cracked and Became. No longer taking from him, it began creating, hundreds of thousands of beautiful colors sprang up around him. Golds and reds, blues and pinks and oranges. Shapeless at first, they slowly unraveled, swishing with the sound of– fabric, that was the word he was looking for. It Became a tall, impossibly huge figure clad in hundreds of robes, never ending and waving in the windless endlessness.
It was a woman, but exactly how Hector knew, he had no idea, for it was the skeleton of a woman. Millions of flowers donned her, heavily scented, and along her crown was strung just as many rows of beads and exquisite jewelry. Rows upon rows of candles burned on her shoulders and her arms, alongside offerings of every shape and size, but the brightest and astounding sight of all were the burning will-of-the-wisps that were her eyes. Two brightly burning skulls, fixated on Hector.
The man was stunned, speechless, and only realized that his legs were shaking when they gave out beneath him, kneeling in awed terror on a very solid platform and–
Wait. He could kneel. He could stand! He could move and think and– and remember. He knew this woman. This towering, impossibly possible figure.
“Santa Muerte,” he breathed.
The Bony Lady nodded, cheekbones pulling into a wide, wiiide smile. It both comforted and terrified the man.
His bones rattled audibly as he removed his hat and crossed his arms before him, reverently.
“Do not be afraid of me, músico,” she said.
“E-easier said than done,” he squeaked. But he was smiling back. It was hard not to. Death’s smile was quite infectious. “It’s, heh, it’s n-not every day that you get to meet La Flaquita.”
“Oh, so you know of my other names,” said Santa Muerte, a chuckle in her endless voice.
“¡Si! Who doesn’t know of Santa Muerte?” Hector laughed, his terror forgotten, as if he were speaking to an old friend. “La Madrina, La Dama Pedorosa!”
“I go by many different names,” said Santa Muerte, her sockets crinkling. Even the skulls of her eyes smiled in a motherly sort of amusement.
“And I know them all!” Hector proclaimed, finally finding the energy to stand. “When I was just a little kid, I heard so many stories about you from Hermana Sanchez and the other sisters at the church of Santa Cecilia. How you’re the protector of the Dead…”
As soon as bravado came, it went out, like the snuff of a candle.
“But… what are you doing here, My Lady?” Hector asked, motioning to the Nothing, stretching as far around him as it seemed Santa Muerte’s visage did. “In this… horrible, forgotten, empty place!”
“This is my Home, Hector.”
“Oh.”
Well. Now he felt like a burro.
“I mean, it’s not so bad!” Hector said, idly motioning to the expansive white, index and thumb bones squaring off a part like a camera lens. “Una mesa aqui, poco sillas alli–”
“But you are not wrong,” Santa Muerte chuckled. “This is a forgotten place. Full of forgotten things.”
Hector felt the bottom fall out of the stomach he did not have. He watched as Santa Muerte’s eyes flared, her flaming pupils rising, filling the cavity of her sockets with a brilliant golden color, not unlike the one that illuminated him in the previous world. The motherly warmth grew to a blistering inferno and Hector had to shield his face from the sudden blinding light.
“We are in my Domain,” said Muerte, though her voice was unbelievably Everywhere, and not just her voice but others as well, dark booming voices piled on top of screeching fiery wails, Muerte’s commanding tone overwhelming them all. “We are in Xibalba.”
Hector gulped, a wave of dread falling over him, a terrified ringing in his ears left in the wake of the thousands of voices. The voices of the Dead and Gone.
“Xi… Xibalba?” said Hector.
“The Home of I and my Beloved. Where those who are lost can be found, protected,” said Muerte, her many voices calming in tone and volume, now much more gentle but no less many. Hector felt a chill– he swore he heard Chicharron in there, somewhere. “And given second chances.”
“Second… chances?” said Hector, trying to ignore his bones as they continued to rattle. “You don’t m-mean…”
Muerte stared, wishing to continue. Hector clamped his mouth shut, and made no move to interrupt further.
“There are those who die, often wishing to be forgotten,” said Muerte, solemn, quiet in spite the many voices. “Whose souls were so tortured in the living world that even they can find no hope or rest in the next.”
Hector nodded, though he did not like where this was going.
“There are also those who are not long for the world, who die young and helpless with no memories to call their own. This is the land those souls dwell. It is not quite paradise, but it is all the relief that I can give them…” Muerte bowed her head, her voice fully returning to one, that of a lady, kind and gentle and knowing. Knowing all. “And then… there are there souls who are simply left behind, unfairly. Forgotten.”
“Like…” Hector shrugged and looked at himself, feeling rather small.
“Si, mi músico pobrecito,” said Muerte. The lights of her eyes dimming to pinpricks. The flaming skulls were not smiling. “Like you.”
So it really did happen. Coco… she…
“She forgot me,” said Hector. The emptiness crept closer, threatening to take more of him away, render him a colorless, empty thing. “My Coco…”
“She wanted to,” said Santa Muerte, her booming voice driving the emptiness away.
Hector felt the floor fall out from under him and he stumbled with a shout, slipping gracelessly onto his tailbone. It was at that very moment, feeling the ground shift and fold into pearly white porcelain beneath him, that he realized he was not standing on a perfectly flat platform, but on two curved, delicate, very large hands.
He was literally in Death’s hands.
“¡Ayy-! ¡Madre de Cristo–!” Hector yelped once the movement stopped, now eye level with Santa Muerte and staring her dead on, hugging one of her thumbs like a life preserver. He froze, like a bug under a magnifying glass.
“But try hard as they might– Imelda, Julio, Rosita, Oscar and Filipe, Victoria, Helena, Coco, and all the other Riveras– none of them could.”
Santa Muerte smiled her brightest, summer day smile yet, and Hector found himself loss of strength to stand. He felt something hard tug in the place where his heart once beat in life, grip slacking.
“You… you mean…!”
“You are finally going home, mi músico viajero,” said Muerte, her smile threatening to split her skull in half.
Hector couldn’t contain himself. El quiere gritar a los cielos. Gritar until he was hoarse, till he lost his voice, till he could talk or sing no more.
And yet he could hardly find enough nerve to.
“Re… really?” He asked, pleadingly as he stood, still holding the thumb for balance.
It all sounded too good to be true. He’d gotten so close, so damnably close hundreds of– thousands of– countless times before. So close to finding Coco and returning home, only to have his hopes dashed and his memories left to become golden dust in the wind. Why should this time be any different?
Santa Muerte only smiled. Letting the lost soul hold onto one hand as she freed another, she held her free boney fingers over the right side of her half-exposed ribcage. Before Hector could ask or say or even think as to why, it started to glow the same gold as her eyes.
When the glowing faded, she moved her hand. It revealed a large, golden, eternally flaming heart, sporting a crown and wings. She wordlessly brought the silent musician up close to it. He stared at his own decrepit, piteous reflection in its glassy, ornamental reflection, absolutely puzzled.
“See for yourself.”
And at her words, a scene appeared in the red tinted glass heart, like water reflecting on a lake. A scene that, had Hector had a heart, would have stopped it dead.
It was a small room, tinted in warm colors from the risen sun, with walls of stone, sparsely furnished. A small bed sat across from a sturdy wooden door, a couple shelves, a chest of drawers… and…
And a small, frail old woman, sitting in a finely woven wicker rocking chair. She wore a small white dress, a pale orange shawl, and her skin had enough wrinkles to rival Dante’s. Her face was set in a frown, expression as empty as Xibalba, eyes barely open, almost unaware as she rocked back and forth, back and forth… and her hair, whiter than bone, was drawn into two frizzy, yet well cared for, cascading braids.
“Co… Coco,” Hector croaked.
She’s gotten so old. Su pequeñita para ser amado, she had gotten so very old. Hector choked at all that lost time, all those years he missed her birthdays and kissed at bedtimes. Her Quinceanera. Her marriage and her children. All those years without being there for her when she needed him. Hector leaned into the heart, silently begging that it would let him crossover, let him give his baby girl a hug, solo un poquito besito, please, please, oh, please, Coco–!
“I need to see Mama Coco! Please!”
Hector’s breath caught in his throat, frantic thoughts screeched to a halt.
He knew that voice.
—–
Slowly, blearily, Miguel awoke from the dream.
It was a strange, twisted, confusing dream. A dream about skeletons and curses, betrayal and lies, family and promises. When he opened his eyes, he expected to wake up in his room, with his messy underwear all on the floor and Abuelita banging on the door to summon him for breakfast.
But instead, he found himself sprawled on shining marble, not comfy linens.
His entire body ached, his shirt was torn, and he was covered in a blanket of warm marigold and dahlia petals.
He was in de la Cruz’s tomb? That. That cannot be right. That would mean that–
And there, not too far from his own fingertips, sat the shimmering, reverent guitar. De la Cruz’s guita–
No.
No!
Papa Hector’s– it was Hector’s guitar!
It had not been a dream!!!
Heart pounding him to life, the youngest Rivera grabbed the pristine instrument and tore off as if the Devil himself were on his heals. It was a run for the ages, a run for a lifetime.
A run to save the dead.
“There he is!”
“Miguel! Stop!”
Miguel heard his uncle and cousin shout after him, his own papa not far behind him, but still he did not stop.
Papa Hector, he promised Papa Hector! He had to save him before Mama Coco–
“Where have you been?!”
There were tears in Abuelita Elena’s voice, and never had Miguel felt so guilty. But he had to deal with her later. Emotions could come after he saved what was left of his musical heritage.
“I need to see Mama Coco! Please!” He begged.
Abuelita made to grab her grandson, but gasped when she saw the guitar. Miguel felt his soul clench at the thought of her destroying Hector’s only remaining proof of life, like she had done with Miguel’s own homemade guitar. Using his own body to shield it, he dove past Elena and slammed the door shut. The lock jammed with a clunk and he was in Mama Coco’s room, his pobre Abuelita banging pleadingly on the door, demanding an explanation.
He’d made it. He’d made it to Mama Coco.
Now came the hard part.
“Mama Coco? I-it’s me, Miguel. I-I saw your Papa!
The youngest living Rivera kneeled before the eldest living Rivera, placing a hand on her gnarled, bony hands. They weren’t shaking like they usually did.
"R-remember?” Mama Coco said nothing. She did not even mistake him for her late husband. Miguel’s heart clenched. “…Papa?”
Mama Coco was eerily still. Unusually quiet.
The pounding on the door continued, falling on deaf ears. No, no, he couldn’t be too late. He couldn’t be! He– he’d promised!
“Pleased, Mama Coco, don’t forget him,” Miguel sobbed. “If you do– he’ll be gone. Forever!”
Still nothing. Coco had not even looked up.
Miguel thought of Chicharron, wafting away from his hammock. He thought of the pain on Hector’s face as he left the Land of the Dead. He sobbed again.
“S-see?” He tried, desperate. His voice shook like rattling bones. “This was his guitar, right? He used to play it for you?”
Hands shaking harder and harder, he grasped the old family photo, incomplete, missing a long lost beloved face.
“See? There he is!”
Not even when Miguel tried to gently turn Coco’s face to the photograph did she budge. It was like… she was gone. That Miguel was talking to an empty shell. Empty of feelings or heartache.
“Papa?” Miguel pleaded, eyes stinging with sweat and tears. “Remember?”
Empty of thoughts.
“P-Papa…?”
Empty of memories.
“Mama Coco, please… don’t forget him!”
But Coco turned her head away. It was no use. There was nothing in her ancient, tired, lonely eyes.
The reality hit Miguel like a load of tanned leather. He clumsily stood, barely able to hold onto the photo. He heard his family force the door open, heard his Abuelita lament over Coco’s strife, heard his father’s scolding him.
But all of it was overshadowed by the thought of Hector turning to golden dust, disappearing with the breeze. The one Rivera who ever understood him, who was proud of him for his love of music in spite of hating musicians, who showed him what family really meant, gone forever out of Miguel’s life, both in his memories and in the next physical plane.
Unable to bear it, the youngest living Rivera let himself succumb to the weight of his grief, and he wept.
–
An eerie sense of dejas vous clung to Hector like a wet sheet, like La Llorona. Unwelcome thoughts of moving pictures in black and white, poisoned drinks and false friendships wormed into him, chilling him to the– well– to the bone. It was like… like watching one of those old films. He could see everything as it happened, a mere spectator at a cinema. Yet it looked so real, so painful, vividly real.
“What are you doing to that poor woman?!”
“It’s okay, Manny–”
“What’s gotten into you, Miguel?!”
Hector watched helplessly as Miguel, his stupid, headstrong little Chamaco, was scolded by his unknowing living family. He felt a petty sense of satisfaction as he watched a wash of guilt fell over the human he could only assume to be Miguel’s father. However, Hector could have gone a lifetime, and an afterlifetime, without seeing the poor boy crumbled unto his own sorrow.
He wanted to badly to hug Miguel, to tell him it was alright. Heh, once a Papa, always a Papa. The vicarious relief he felt when the poor boy’s parents held him close was enough. He felt empty, hopeless to do anything to assuage the poor Rivera, but it was enough.
“I thought I lost you, Miguel.”
“I’m sorry Papa,” Miguel sniffed.
“We’re together now,” his mama shushed. “Everything is fine.”
“…not all of us…” Miguel hiccuped, gripping his father’s shirt all the tighter.
“Estas bien, Chamaco,” said Hector, urging it to reach Miguel through the heart of red glass, willing the kid to know of his gratitude. “I’m still here. You did great, mijo. You’ve done more for me in a day than anyone else has in… I dunno how long, kid…”
“Miguel,” angry, hurt, confused, and more angry still, an elderly lady with fading grey tied back in a way that reminded Hector of his beloved Imelda, stood and rounded on the boy. Miguel’s grandmother? Hector had no idea. “You apologize to your Mama Coco.”
“¡Ay! ¡Espera un minuto!” Hector didn’t want to be angry at his own family, yet in spite of his inability to be seen, to be alive, to do anything useful, his temper flared for the kid like an angry dog. He banged a fist on the glass. “Give the kid a break, he almost died last night–!”
“Ay, cuidado,” Santa Muerte chastised, her voice booming through Hector’s bones like a drum. “No pounding on my heart, por favor. I only have one of those.”
“S-sorry Señora,” Hector squeaked, clasping his hands behind him.
“M-Mama Coco?”
Hector heard the sound of leather meeting wood and metal, and in that instant, time itself seemed to stand still.
On his way to apologize, Miguel had almost tripped over the infamous skeletal guitar. For a moment, Miguel did not move. Hector couldn’t tell if the boy was even breathing.
“Mama Coco?” Miguel sniffed. “Your Papa? He-he wanted you to have this.”
And then, wordlessly, Miguel picked up the guitar, knelt at Coco’s side, and in plain view for every living Rivera– plus one dead Rivera– to see…
“Miguel–!” The angry elder woman gasped, only to be stopped by Miguel’s father.
“Mama! Wait…!”
Miguel strummed a soft, sweet melody. One that Hector knew, all too well.
And he began to sing.
“Remember me… though I have to say goodbye…”
Miguel sobbed, but played on, no matter how much his grief pained him. No matter how much he regretted not knowing the truth sooner. He played his little heart out, not for the world, but for his own little part of it. For his family. For Mama Coco. And for Hector.
“Remember me… don’t let I make you cry…!”
The song filled the little room. Hector could feel it, as if he were standing there next to the kid. It reached through the glass, through the emptiness, through Death itself. And little by little, Hector could feel all the wonderful memories he’d had with Coco flowing back through him.
Singing his little darling to sleep when nightmares plagued her. Singing for Imelda’s health when her worries and caring for a family became too stressful for her. Singing and playing for his own little perfect corner of the living world, once upon a time.
“For even if I’m far away, I hold you in you heart. I sing a secret song to you, each night we are apart.”
And when that perfect little part of his world had been stripped away from him, even his beloved songs had turned against. Ernesto’s sensationalization of the song had turned something he once held so dear into an endlessly campy, brassy nightmare. He’d taken his gift to Coco away from her and butchered it, chopped into tiny, disgusting little pieces so it could be given to the rest of the world.
“Remember me, though I have to travel far…”
But no. No more. Not this time. Miguel had done what Hector could not. He was bringing it all back, to him, and to–
Coco… her… her hands, they were moving. Shaking. And her eyes. They were lighting up, like tiny candles in a church window.
“Remember me,” Coco sang with Miguel, her once tiny, peep of a voice, now croaking and withered, but still familiar and kind and sweet and wonderful and so very Coco, no matter how old she became. Her tired, toothless face pulled back into a smile even brighter than Santa Muerte’s. “Each time you hear a sad guitar…!”
Hector was definitely crying again. But his soul felt so full and his face hurt so much from smiling that he could not have cared less.
“Know that I’m with you the only way that I can be.” Hector hummed along, faintly out of tune through his sobs. He sunk to his knees, a hand pressed to the glass, the welcome yet unfamiliar feeling of peace washing over him, overwhelming his tired soul, like an oasis in a barren dessert. “Until you’re in my arms again…”
“Remember… me…”
Coco hummed, eyes glassy with joy, and Hector couldn’t help but hum back in agreement. Who cared if she couldn’t see him. She remembered his song. She remembered him.
Coco remembered her hapless old Papa Hector.
“My papa,” Coco croaked, still beaming. “Used to sing me that song.”
“I did it because I love you, mijita,” Hector croaked, though he knew it fell on deaf ears.
“He loved you Mama Coco!” Miguel said, sniffling and smiling in turn. “Your Papa? He loved you so much.”
Both Hector and Coco stared at Miguel, stunned. Hector quietly thanked every god in existence that he could think of as Coco did what he could not, reaching forward to gently caress Miguel’s face and wipe away at the sobbing boy’s tear stained cheek.
Hector laughed, breathless, still more tears slipping down his cheekbones. What did he do to deserve that kid?
“I kept… his letters…”
Her gnarled hands shaking, the eldest living Rivera reached to her chest of drawers… and pulled out a small, old, worn, red book. Both Hector and Miguel had to crane their necks to see, watching in silence as she pulled out a small, seemingly innocuous scrap of paper.
“Poems he wrote me… and…”
Coco handed the scrap to Miguel. Hector couldn’t see what was on the paper, even as he tried to pull himself together, stand on tiptoes and take a peak. He watched as Miguel’s eyes went wide, and he slipped the scrap of paper alongside the old torn family photo.
A perfect fit.
“!!!!!!!!!!”
Hector couldn’t take it anymore. He belted out his loudest, longest, best, most joyous grito to date, his only audience being the embodiment of death itself. It echoed in the giant, unending chamber, and continued until Hector ran out of breath and fell to his knees once more, laughing and crying and an absolute mess.
“Hmm,” Santa Muerte nodded, approving. “Not bad.”
“She kept it,” Hector laughed, hoarse and uncaring. He felt like he could climb a mountain, like he could dance and sing for eternity. “She didn’t throw away my picture. She didn’t throw me away!”
Hector sobbed and gasped for breath. Dios, he needed to wash his face.
“I gotta remember to give that kid a medal. Or make up some fake holiday and name it after him,” Hector laughed, palming at his tearstained cheekbones.
“Dia del Chamaco,” Santa Muerte chuckled.
“¡Dia del Chamaco!” Hector shouted, launching into one last grito before emotional exhaustion finally caught up to him and sent him sprawling flat on his back into Santa Muerte’s waiting palm. “Ay, Dios mio…”
“Having fun?” said Santa Muerte, smiling.
“Having the day of my afterlife,” said Hector, smiling wider.
“Well, that day is coming to an end, músico viajero,” said Santa Muerte. “It is time for you to go home, to your family.”
Home. Family. Such words never sounded sweeter.
“Santa Muerte, Mi Señora de la Santa Muerte,” said Hector shakily climbing to his feet as the emptiness around him because fade, warp, shift, and fill with shades, as he felt himself being lifted. “I cannot thank you enough. To show mercy on a penniless failure of a musician–”
“Nonsense,” said Santa Muerte, letting him go and fading into hundreds of thousands of voices, no longer terrifying, but joyous and proud and warm.
“Even Death itself can’t help but love a happy ending.”
And with the sounds and the colors and the memories warming him, surrounding him, cloaking him, shielding him, Hector held tight, and allowed it to bring him back to the Land of the Dead.
And if he had any say in it, he was never going to let go again.
—–
-One Year Later-
Miguel had been playing all night. He liked to think that his cantandos and gritos could be heard all the way in Mexico City. Thoughts of fame far from his mind, he just wanted the world to know that he was a Rivera and Riveras are proud shoemakers and singers, through and through.
But needless to say, he was absolutely exhausted.
“Great work tonight, mijo,” said his father, ruffling Miguel’s hair. “You worked hard on those new songs.”
“Gracias, Papa,” said Miguel, fanning himself with his trusty rust-red mariachi hat. Phew, it sure was warm night. Most of the festivities had died down, the food long since eaten, mostly by Dante, and the Riveras were preparing their offerings for the cemetery. “I’m gonna go get changed and help with cleanup.”
“Nonsense Miguel,” said Abuelita Elena, baskets already prepared and under her arms. She smiled and patted his shoulder. “You’ve worked hard enough. Go get changed and join your mama in gathering the offerings.”
“Okay Abuelita,” Miguel laughed, knowing there was no point in arguing with his Mama Elena.
Despite having a better temperament towards music nowadays, she was as stubborn as ever about pretty much everything else. Planting a quick peck on her cheek, Miguel went to his room to quickly change, snickering when he spotted Dante snoring on his bed, food drunk and wrinkly as ever. The stray tabby cat that followed Dante to the party sat curled next to him, purring up a storm. It was disturbed upon Miguel’s intrusion, prompting it to stretch and stare at him, accusingly.
“Los cientos, gatito,” Miguel whispered, giving the kitty and quick scratch behind the ear before going back to changing.
Clad in a clean collared shirt and pants, Miguel was just about to slip on clean socks and shoes when the darn cat, as if by magic, appeared in his sock drawer, his last clean pair clenched in its tiny fangs.
“What that–?!” Miguel balked, head swiveling from the bed to the drawer. “How did–?!”
“Mrrr!” it trilled, and shot off like a rocket.
“Hey! Get back here!”
The strange animal made a beeline for the ofrenda room, tail flicking excitedly. When Miguel finally caught up with it, the cat scrambled under the table cloth, hissing.
“What is with the animals in this town??” Miguel asked no one in particular. “Listen here cat, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you and Dante are cut from the same–”
But when Miguel lifted the tablecloth, the cat was gone, leaving only his socks behind.
“…cloth?”
Santa Cecilia was a strange town. Oh well, at least this would make a funny story to tell his baby sister when she got old enough to know how jokes worked. It would make for an interesting memory.
Memory…
As if realizing for the first time that he was standing in the ofrenda room, Miguel admired the towering shrine, illuminated in reds and golds by candles and endless petals.
His family, guiding him from the other side. Miguel smiled to himself. Sometimes he caught himself thinking back on that fateful day the Land of the Dead, scarcely able to believe that so much happened to him in one night. A life without music, stifled by a family that refuses to understand? All of that changed in one night. By one man. Crazy, but true.
“Hope you had fun tonight, everyone,” said Miguel, admiring all of the old photos. He wondered if any of their spirits were still hanging around, or they had all moved on to the cemetery.
“Especially you two,” Miguel chuckled. The mended blank and white photo simply stared back, still and lifeless, as did the photo of elder Mama Coco.
“So! Hector Rivera,” said Miguel to no one in particular, mimicking the voice and hand movements of a talk show host, from those old Ernesto de la Cruz he once treasured so dearly (now acquiring dust at the bottom of a pawn shop bin). “How does it feel to go from a total nobody with No Ofrenda to the newly rediscovered musical genius of Santa Cecilia?“
"Musical genius?” Miguel gasped, placing a single marigold petal on his chin to mimic the vagabond’s facial hair, and an empty dish as a straw hat. “Pah! That world can keep its musical geniuses. I only play for mi familia!”
Miguel couldn’t but snicker at his own foolishness, replacing the dish– and nearly dropping it at the thought of Hector holding an actual interview. That spaz of a great great grandfather couldn’t last a minute in the limelight. But that was ok. Hector’s music wasn’t for the world… it was for those who cared about him. Like him, Imelda, Coco, all the Riveras.
“Still, it must’ve been something,” Miguel said to himself as he retrieved his socks and returned to admiring the ofrenda. “Mama Coco and Papa Hector’s first real Dia de los Muertos. Together…”
Miguel’s face drew into frown, and his grip tightened.
“At least… I hope it was…”
Miguel didn’t like to think about it too much, but there was always a small seed of doubt that he’d… that he’d really done it. That he’d saved Hector’s soul in time.
Sure, Mama Coco had held onto her treasures from her papa and sung along with his song, but… It had been well past sunrise by the time Miguel had helped Coco find her memories. And despite the adventure he’d been on, Miguel was not exactly looking to return to the Land of the Dead any time soon. He had no real way of knowing his efforts had not been in vain, save for a photo and hope.
“I hope you made it,” Miguel prayed, staring reverently at the photo of his Papa Hector. “You deserve a happy ending.”
The photo simply stared back, silent as ever.
Miguel sighed and unwound his socks. He had to hurry before Abuelita’s patience ran thin–
But just as he was about to slip them on, a small, rolled up piece of paper fell from the folds of one sock. Confused, Miguel inspected the paper. It looked old, age weathered, but held strong when he unrolled it completely.
It was a Rivera Zapatos receipt. An old one at that, Everything handwritten in dark purple ink.
“How’d that end up in here…?”
But the longer Miguel stared at the receipt, the more something incredible began to dawn on him. He read the fine print once. Blinked. Then he read it again. Blink blinked. Then, eyes big and mouth wide, he read it a third time, just to be sure he wasn’t dreaming.
The signature.
At the bottom.
I-it couldn’t be–!
In the doorway, the small tabby cat purred, content. It turned to someone that could not be seen by mortal eyes, and leaned heavily into an invisible skeletal hand.
“Standard brown oxford wingtips. Size 12. Leather brogue, double stitching, left heel lower to accommodate balance.”
Imelda smiled as she continued to pet Pepita. Her smile widened when she felt Hector place a hand on her shoulder, not arguing when he pulled her close.
“Family discount,” Hector added, nuzzling his cheekbone with his lack of a nose.
“You still owe me for that,” said Imelda, her smile that of a cat.
“He got a pair of Rivera Shoes!” Miguel cheered.
Miguel scrambled from the ofrenda room and dashed for his own, no doubt to throw his arms around a confused and still very sleepy Dante. The kid looked ready to jump over the moon with joy.
Imelda smiled and Hector preened, the both of them very proud of the effect their little surprise.
“Did Miguel like the present, Papa?” said Coco.
“I’d say it’s a real winner, mijita,” Hector chuckled, smoothing out his elderly daughter’s soft, white hair. “But I like my present better.”
And so, arm in arm, the three spirits followed the overjoyed little musician as he eagerly led his other living relatives on to the cemetery of Santa Cecilia. None of the living Riveras understood where the boy’s sudden burst of energy came from, but with the boy’s many quirks, it was probably for the best that they did not ask. Perhaps he was just getting his second wind from all those tamales Abuelita forced onto his plate.
And all the while, Hector could only smile. He’d be damned if anyone could stop him from smiling.
It was a wonderful Dia de los Muertos.
One of many, worth remembering for years to come.
—–
The End… until next Dia de los Meurtos!
—–
Author’s Notes: Man, this was a wild ride. At least 24 pages, most of it written down on my phone due to messing up my dominant hand. The heart of this story was that I just wanted to find a way for Hector to see Coco remembering him, and it turned into a lot of research on folklore centering Xibalba and Santa Muerte.
A lot of inspiration came from themes from Jorge R. Gutiérrez’s The Book of Life, especially in Santa Muerte’s disposition, but her design was more heavily inspired by the ofrendas decorated in her honor. Xibalba’s interpretation is also slightly stretched to include themes of Limbo and possibly even reincarnation, but I do not claim to own any of these ideas centering around the folklore. These tales belong to the people of Mexico as well as the other Latin American cultures who believe in and celebrate them. I hope that my interpretation sparks other reader’s interests in learning more. Feel free to review the links below to find out more for yourself!
Hola! I just wanted to show some steps of my drawing method!
The first is the scan of the traditional art drawing, the second is the digital clean drawing and the last is the final result after digital retouching!
A doodle of Héctor, Miguel and Imelda for the Coco teacher au by @slusheeduckand@im-fairly-whitty (originally it was just Imector, but Miguel was just too cute to not draw)
doodle of the Santa Cecilia trio in @pengychan ‘s fic The Heaven and Earth Series~ it’s a bunch of short stories about the youth of Héctor and Ernesto, they’re so good.
Seeing the gifs of Hector kissing Imelda and Coco over and over not only warms my heart, but brought something important to my attention: Hector kisses them both with his eyes open, like he can’t believe he’s really with them again. He doesn’t want to stop seeing them, even for a moment
