The Perfect Homecoming (Pine River #3)

The Broncos totally let me down, but still, you gotta hand it to me—I did it. I made that trip happen. That may not seem like a lot to you, but try accomplishing something like that from the hell I live in every day. I mean, think about it, the only thing I had was my cunning and genius. I couldn’t even hold a pencil to make some notes! Look, I’m not bragging, I’m just pointing out, that’s how good I am.

I’m super proud of myself, but I have to be honest here—it made me wonder what else I could have accomplished in life if I hadn’t come down with this stupid disease. I mean, I could have been an astronaut! Not that I would have been an astronaut, because the idea of flying around space freaks me out. I’m just saying, I could have been anything.

So I was thinking about all this and feeling pretty sorry for myself while I was in the hospital, because a), once again, they gave me a guy nurse, which is a total waste of my time, and b), I guess I’m due.

At first, I thought I was just bummed because the Broncos lost to the freaking Patriots (you really can’t say that enough, Bronco fans), but then I realized I was mostly bummed because I’ve been looking forward to that game for so long. I have spent so much time working and planning to make it happen that I haven’t had time to think of other, more unpleasant things, you know? Meaning . . . those thoughts that creep into my head when I’m trying to sleep. You know what I mean. You’ve probably had those thoughts, too, but maybe not as urgently as I have. Like . . . what’s it like to die? Will I know I’m dead? Will it hurt? What’s it like on the other side? Is Mom going to be there? Did she find Grandpa? What if she’s not there, and it’s all black? What if it’s nothing but darkness?

I won’t lie, I used to worry about that, but I don’t anymore. Maybe because lately, I’ve been having these dreams of running. I’m just running and running, and I’m impressed by how strong my legs are, and amazed that my lungs are working so efficiently, and my heart is steady as a drum, and it feels good. No, seriously, it feels fantastic. I would run up and down these mountains if I could. Here’s something I’ve never told anyone but you: sometimes, I want to sleep just so I can run.

If you don’t run, you should try it. It’s totally awesome that your body can do that, and then make you feel so good about it when you’re done.

So I was digging my running dreams, and then this weird thing happened. Don’t freak out when I tell you this one, but okay, here goes. When I got out of the hospital, Marisol brought over that little stinker Valentina and her abuela, her grandmother. Grandma is visiting from Mexico. She comes up from the interior once or twice a year and cleans Marisol’s house and makes tamales for Christmas. At least that’s the way Marisol talks about it. Her name is Maria, and she doesn’t know a whole lot of English, which is cool, because I don’t know a whole lot of Spanish other than hola and besame and abuela.

So Granny Maria was sitting in the corner holding the baby and watching me like an old barn owl while Marisol combed my hair and made me change my shirt because I was wearing one with holes in it. Granny Maria didn’t say much, but every once in a while she’d let loose with a string of Spanish, and Marisol would fire right back at her in Spanish like she was mad, and then she’d say something to me like, “My abuela likes you.”

Well, of course she likes me. What’s not to like? And I’d say, “That’s a whole lot of Spanish to say she likes me,” and Marisol would say, “What, you habla Espa?ol now?”

And so it would go.

Anyway, Granny Maria liked my blue shirt better than my green shirt. Granny Maria thought I should have some achicoria in my food because it’s good for the liver. My finely tuned thinking skills translated that to chicory, which I thought was hilarious, because if Granny Maria thinks my liver is the problem, she’s crazier than her batshit gorgeous granddaughter, Marisol. And I promise you, Dad is not going to buy chicory without a fight.

Anyway, when they were leaving, Granny Maria waddled over to my chair—let’s just say she’s obviously enjoyed a lot of Marisol’s excellent homemade tortillas—and put her hand on my totally useless left arm. She smiled down at me, and she had these really pretty brown eyes, and they looked really deep to me, like there was an ocean or something under there, and she said, “The light, it is very bright for you in the heaven, Leo.”

I was like, “What? You speak English?”

She didn’t say yes or no. In fact, she didn’t say anything else in English. She kept smiling at me with those ocean-deep eyes and patted my arm before she waddled out with the baby, firing off in Spanish at Marisol.

I’ve been meaning to mention to Marisol that if she doesn’t watch it with those tortillas, she might end up with her abuela’s hips.

Okay, I didn’t know what Granny Maria meant at the time, but let me tell you, I was more surprised than anyone when the doctor called my dad a few days later and said my blood work was showing some liver issues. Freaky, right? I told Dad to get some chicory root, and he looked at me like I was crazy, and he fought it like I knew he would, but he did it, and he’s grinding it up and putting it in my gruel.