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That day as to be good, it was to be joyous and perfect, and nice! But instead…
It all happened so fast.
There was an argument, there were cracks, their Casita trembled and pushed them outside.
As he held Antonio close, just moments after he saved him from a falling piece of debris, he listened to Julieta and Agustín’s screams as they, with all the despair and worry, yelled out for Mirabel to get out of the house.
She didn't listen.
That’s how he stood there, looking at her body lying motionlessly on the ground, not being able to prevent seeing Antonio instead, in the case he hadn’t been quick enough to get to him in time just a few minutes before.
He knew it was so wrong of him to be glad that it wasn’t Antonio who died that day, but he couldn’t lie that he was grateful it wasn’t his youngest.
But poor Mirabel– he couldn’t even look at her for longer than a few seconds, hearing Julieta and seeing how Pepa was reacting to her sister’s sorrow.
He wanted, at one point, to walk over to his wife, to take her aside, try to calm her down and comfort her. But one look at Pepa was enough to see the panic in her wild, wide-open eyes, to see her pale skin, her intakes of short breaths, and to understand that it all was on him now.
She wasn’t capable of separating from her sister at the moment and he wouldn’t dare to force her to do anything.
So he picked Antonio up and following Dolores’s advice, walked away, far from their family, from Mirabel’s body, from all the people that were coming there.
“Papi,” Antonio asked after they walked a few meters, his little hand tightening at his shirt. “Will Mirabel be alright?”
Félix sighed, feeling uneasy and quite lost.
Antonio was a smart kid for his age, that was true. But when Félix’s father died, Antonio was barely a year old, so he wasn’t familiar with what death meant and what would follow after it.
To be honest, Félix didn’t know that too.
It was something else to die of old age, surrounded by the family, being aware that the death was near.
It was a whole different situation when someone died suddenly, while young and so full of life, in such circumstances, in pain and confusion, and fear.
He had never heard Julieta scream like that. Not when she was in pain, not even when she was in labour. Mirabel’s death hurt just differently - it was another kind of suffering.
One that was unnatural, that was gained unfair, because to die as a child before the parents - it was something that should never happen.
“Toñito, she–” he started, but stopped, thinking of words most appropriate to use. “We need to talk, hijo.”
Antonio lifted his head to look at him, probably hearing all the emotions in his voice.
And then Julieta’s scream echoed once again.
Félix flinched, closing his eyes for a brief second.
Listening to it - it hurt.
“Papi?”
“Give me a moment,” he said, walking a bit faster, aiming for their garden in all its calmness and privacy, with benches to sit at, with conditions to talk properly.
The garden was there - alive and beautiful, though the plants looked a little less colourful, a little less healthy as if Isabela’s gift that helped them grow, now ceased to have its impact on them. As if they returned to normal, to just growing, not growing well.
“Now, Toñito,” he said, sitting him down on one of the benches. “You see, hijo, we need to talk. And–” he stopped, realising he sounded exceptionally grim. So he tried to lighten up his voice a little, he didn’t want to stress Antonio too much. “And this talk won’t be easy. But it’s important and it needs to be done.
Antonio was looking at him intently, his curious eyes giving his father a worried look. “Is it about Mira? Why tía Julieta is so upset?”
Félix laughed at that a little, though there was nothing funny about the situation. Sometimes, he just reacted with a burst of laughter in the most improper situations. It was the same after his father’s death. “Sorry, mijo,” he said, quickly recovering. “Yeah, it’s about Mira.”
“What happened to her? Was she hurt that badly?” he asked, his little fingers rimpling the sleeves of his shirt. “I hope she’s alright.”
Félix’s heart ached for his son at that moment. He knew what he was about to say might have been a strong blow for his youngest, but they couldn’t fool him and say it was going to be okay when it clearly wasn’t and sooner or later Antonio would realize that too.
So he took a deep breath, reached for Antonio’s hands and grasped them tightly between his own as he leaned toward his son and in the softest of voices, he said. “Mirabel is not alright. She’s–she’s gone, Antonio.”
The boy blinked, his brown eyes getting wider before his forehead crunched in a confusion. “What do you mean? I saw her, she was beside tía and tío Agustín and Mamá–”
“No, Toñito, I don’t mean it like that.”
Antonio blinked. “I–I don’t understand.”
Telling him about Mirabel’s death was harder than Félix thought it would be. He had to be very gentle and calm, so as to not upset him too much, though seeing how close Antonio and Mirabel were… However he would say the news, Antonio’s reaction would be just as heartbreaking.
“You see, we, people—” he started, not exactly sure where he was going with that. “We live our lives - we are born, we get to grow, then we get to have our own families and when the time comes, we need to make room for other people. But, for some of us, this time comes faster, much faster. When we have to leave, it’s called dying. We have to die at some points of our lives, but if we’re lucky, we got to live long, longer than your Abuela, but in other cases–”
“Abuelo Pedro died young,” Antonio said quietly, looking at him with his eyes still innocent, not expecting what he was about to hear.
“He did,” Félix nodded, then squeezed his son’s hand a little more. “You see, there are some people that didn’t have the chance to live long enough because death came for them earlier. It’s not fair and it shouldn’t be like that, and it’s heartbreaking for the ones who loved that person but–” one deep breath. “My point is. Mirabel is gone, Antonio. She’s gone the same way Abuelo Pedro is.”
Antonio was quiet. Too quiet to Félix’s liking. His little boy was always a very lively and talkative child. He loved to crow as a baby, then loved to babble as a toddler and finally, he loved to talk since he said his first words.
But that? That silence and that look at his face as he was processing his father’s words? It was painful to see.
“You mean–” he said finally. “You mean that we’d have to hang her portrait on a wall now? Next to Abuelo Pedro?”
Until that moment, Félix didn’t think about it but as Antonio mentioned it… Pedro’s portrait was probably lying somewhere under the debris of their Casita and if it was to be recovered, Mirabel’s portrait would be next to her grandfather’s. He couldn’t imagine looking at her face anytime soon, seeing her body upon closing his eyes. And he couldn’t imagine what would Julieta or Agustín feel.
That was too much for him to think about.
So he focused on Antonio again.
“Si, mijo,” he answered, stroking Antonio’s little hands with his thumbs. “But do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?” the question was gentle but Antonio’s reaction was sudden as his eyes welled up with tears in a few short seconds.
“Mira’s dead?” he asked, his voice so little and terrified. “I won’t see her ever again? Never? Like never-never?”
Félix swallowed with difficulties but nodded. “Si, Toñito.”
“She–won’t be there when we came back? Just as Casita?”
“Si.”
“I won’t hear her voice again?” he asked, his hands trembling. “She won’t sing to me again?”
“Toñito–”
“I like it when she sings to me, Papi. She chases all my nightmares away. What if I have a nightmare now? She won’t be there to calm me down and to hug me? No more hugs and–and kisses? And songs? And what about her jokes and–”
He stopped, sniffing. His breath became uneven and short.
Félix felt his own eyes watering with tears. “You have me and Mami, and Dolores, and Camilo–” Antonio shook his head, his dark locks bouncing with every movement. “But no, Mirabel won’t be there for all those things, Antonio.”
That was it. That was the limit of Antonio’s self-control as he sniffed, then took a sharp breath and started sobbing. His little frame shook with his cries and it broke Félix’s heart to see him like that.
“Toñito,” he started gently, pulling him closer for a hug. “I’m so sorry, hijo. I’m so sorry.”
He was sorry even if Mirabel’s death wasn’t his fault. But maybe it was? Maybe every one of their family was a little guilty of what happened to her? Maybe they could have done more to prevent that.
Maybe, maybe, maybe…
“Mira–” Antonio choked out. “Mi hermana–”
Hi sister. Not his cousin. Antonio had seen her as his sister, someone closer than Dolores or even Camilo. Losing her - it was like losing a sibling that he knew for his whole life, that always was by his side.
“Ay, Toñito…” he murmured, stroking his head and his back, closing his eyes as his own emotions threatened to break him too.
Antonio snuggled closer to him, his cries not stopping. “I want her back, Papi. Bring Mira back!”
“I can’t, mijo. I can’t.”
“Papi, please,” he begged, clenching his little fists on Félix’s shirt. “Please, I want to be with Mira. Bring her back!”
“I can’t do anything,” he said weakly, his own voice breaking as tears fell down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”
Antonio grasped his shirt in a strong grip, his little fingers feeling desperate as he pulled on the material. “Papi. Papi, she was always there. How can she be gone?”
Félix only shook his head, not knowing how to answer that question. He didn’t understand it himself. He couldn’t understand how Mirabel was gone. It still felt so unreal.
“She promised she– she would teach me how to– sew. She was so good at that,” he sniffed, hiding his head in his father’s chest. “She promised!” His desperation and sadness quickly turned into anger as Antonio leaned back, an annoyed pout on his lips, his nose wrinkled. “She broke her promise! She said she would always be here for me. She lied! ”
“Don’t say it–”
“She lied, Papi!” he yelled, trying to get out his father’s embrace. “She promised she would be by my side always! Forever! She lied! She died!”
“Antonio, that’s not something you can foresee–”
“Then why did she promise me!” he said, his fists bumping into his father’s broad chest. “Why did she lie to me!”
“Toñito…”
“Papi,” he sobbed again, his anger disappearing. “She promised me! She can’t be gone–”
“I’m sorry, hijo.”
“She can’t be gone,” he repeated, resting his head against Félix’s shoulder. “She promised– she left me alone.”
“You’re not alone,” he reassured him.
“I am,” he answered, his voice little. “You don’t understand.”
Félix didn’t understand. He was an only child and he didn’t know what it was like to have someone as close as Mirabel was to Antonio. And he worried, because Antonio, just as Pepa, loved with all his being, with all his heart, even if it was to hurt him.
He could only hope Antonio’s pain would ease as time passed. (Even if he doubted it, he clung to that thought. The only thing that kept him together.)