And of course, Sam had to add her commentary. “I’m glad you’re quitting smoking, Dad. Nobody likes to kiss smokers.” She sort of shot Marcos a little grin.
Marcos looked around. “I’ll go next. I’m going to start running again.” And he looked at Sam. “What, no editorial?”
Sam didn’t hesitate. “And you were doing so well, Marcos. You know, we’re still watching you.”
Marcos grinned. I noticed there was something very shy about him. I thought that was a good thing. At least he wasn’t an arrogant asshole.
Then it was Sam’s turn. “I’ve decided not to date any more boys until I get to college.”
And my dad blurted out, “Whooaaa.”
Fito was smiling his ass off. “We’ll see,” he said.
“Yeah, we will,” Sam said.
Then it was my turn. “I resolve never to use my fists again.”
Sam said, “Not even to protect my honor?”
“Your honor doesn’t need protecting,” I said.
“Hmm,” she said.
“And,” I said. “And I’m going to let anybody who wants to, read my admissions essay. But I don’t want to hear any editorials.” That put a smile on my dad’s face.
Sam was all over reading my essay. “When? When?”
There we were in the New Mexico desert. Fito and Marcos were setting up some fireworks, ready to bring in the new year. Dad popped a bottle of champagne and poured a glass for everyone. Well, a plastic cup for everyone. So the fireworks were all ready to be fired, and we were all standing around, all dressed up with our coats on, and I was glad it wasn’t that cold.
And then Marcos looked at his cell and we start to count. Together. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one: HAPPY NEW YEAR!
That was the first time I’d ever seen my dad kiss another man.
I don’t think I was quite prepared for that. And it wasn’t, like, this sexy thing or anything. More like a peck. But still. They had a thing. And it was New Year’s, after all.
Sam was smiling. No, she was beaming. She kissed me on the cheek. “Happy New Year, Sally. Let’s make it count.”
Then Fito kissed me on the cheek too. “That cool?”
“That’s cool,” I said.
Happy. New. Year.
Happy New Year?
WE WENT TO see Mima on New Year’s Day.
She was in bed. She’d always made menudo on New Year’s Day. Not this year. She was hardly eating anything anymore. I knew she was getting ready to say goodbye. Word for the day: goodbye. A common word. A sad and common word.
But the good news: she was talking again. “Pray with me,” she said. So we gathered in her room and prayed the rosary. It was like this gift. I didn’t know if it was Mima who was giving us a gift or us giving her a gift. Maybe both. When we finished, she said, “I want to talk to you.”
So she talked to us. All of us. One at a time. She pointed at my Uncle Mickey. We all left the room so she could talk to him. It reminded me of going to confession. You know, everybody waiting their turn.
When she was done talking to my dad, he walked into the living room and said, “Son, you and Sam and Fito.”
And Fito goes, “Me?”
My dad nodded.
I sat down on Mima’s bed and held her hand. She squeezed my hand softly. There was so little strength left in that hand. Then she placed that same hand on my cheek and said, “Hijito de mi vida.”
Sam and Fito were standing close.
And my Mima said, “Samantha, you have to take care of my Salvador. He’s your brother, and you have to take care of him.” She made a fist. “You’re strong.”
“I promise,” Sam said.
“And, Salvador, you have to take care of Samantha.”
“I promise,” I said.
Then she looked at Fito. “Vicente talked to me about you.” She motioned for him to come closer and she took his hand. “Life can be hard. I know how hard it can be.” And then she said, “Déjate querer.”
Let yourself be loved.
She made the sign of the cross on our foreheads.
I kissed her.
That was how she said goodbye to the world. To the people she loved. She was going to leave this earth the same way her mother had.
With all the grace of the old world. The old, dying world.
Night
NO ONE SAID a word on the drive home. Dad was trying to be strong for us, for me and Sam.
And I was trying to be strong for him. I’d never thought about that. I knew now, and maybe a part of me had always known it, that my dad knew how to keep his pain to himself. He’d learned—?maybe because he was born gay—?he’d learned how to suffer things in silence. I didn’t want that silence for him.
The night seemed so dark.
But I think I’d learned how to whistle in the dark. Maybe that was something.
Thursday. Two O’clock in the Morning.
WE WENT TO MIMA’S every day after that. Back and forth from El Paso to Las Cruces. Marcos came with us. He always drove.
Mima had stopped talking.
Sometimes it seemed that she had already left her body. But sometimes I thought she still recognized me.
On Thursday, at two in the morning, Dad woke me and Sam. “Let’s go,” he said.
I stumbled into my clothes.
As soon as we walked into Mima’s house, Aunt Evie fell into my father’s arms. “She’s gone.”
Gone
THERE ARE A LOT of things I don’t remember. I think part of me went away somewhere after Mima died. But this is what I do remember. Someone came and pronounced my Mima dead. My dad and my Aunt Evie made calls and more calls.
Some men from the funeral home came to take Mima away.
Dad and I watched as they placed Mima’s body on a stretcher.
As they were wheeling her out, my dad made a motion for them to stop. He kissed her forehead and crossed himself. Then he nodded at the somber funeral men, and they placed her in the hearse.
Dad and Aunt Evie and Sam and I watched them drive away.
My dad turned and walked back inside. I think he was lost in those moments.
Sam took my hand and whispered, “This is killing me. I’m trying so hard.”
I nodded. I couldn’t talk.
I walked into the house. I found my dad sitting on Mima’s bed.
My father was sobbing.
My father.
I sat next to him. And then I took him in my arms. My father.
Grief
I WAS SITTING in Dad’s car. Mima’s house was full of people. Our family. Old friends. Everyone brought food. There was food everywhere. My Uncle Mickey said, “Mexicans love to eat. We eat when we’re happy, and we eat when we’re sad.”
Marcos and Fito were staying at a hotel.
Dad was being very strong. He wrote her obituary for the newspaper. He wrote her eulogy. He was all about taking care of business. He greeted people; he talked to people; he comforted people. I guess my dad wasn’t the kind of guy who sat around and felt sorry for himself.
Me, I was just numb and lost.
I tried to think of the stages that Sam talked about. But I couldn’t remember what they were.
I didn’t want to be around anyone. I didn’t want anyone to see my pain. I didn’t want to see it either.
I went driving. I found myself driving toward that farm Mima had taken me to once. I’d been trying to find it without knowing it.
And then I reached the farm. It was winter and nothing was growing.