Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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Chapter One 
————

When my time comes around
Lay me gently in the cold, dark earth
No grave can hold my body down
I'll crawl home to her

When my time comes around
Lay me gently in the cold, dark earth
No grave can hold my body down
I'll crawl home to her

‘Work Song,’ by Hozier 

————

————

‘Imelda?’ 

Coco’s hand is clammy in hers, clutching so tightly that Imelda’s fingers tingle with the pressure. She rubs her thumb up and down the side of Coco’s hand. 

‘Felipe,’ Imelda says, and then she cringes as he half shakes his head. ‘Sorry, Óscar, of course.’ 

Óscar is taller than she remembers. The twins were still children when she’d left with Héctor and Ernesto all those years ago - pre-teen, still in shorts, playing with figurines and toys. Óscar in front of her is recognisable, still gangly and thin, in the way young men are, with a fluffy moustache on his upper lip. 

But he towers over her now, with his hair neatly parted, and small glasses perched on his nose. 

‘Imelda, what - oh my - Imelda -’ 

He follows up the steps to the house - Imelda had come to an awkward stop outside the main doorway -  setting down his bag. 

Groceries, she thinks he’d been carrying. He reaches out his hands awkwardly, and Imelda lets him, taking his offered hand, letting him draw her into a half hug. 

‘What - this -‘ 

‘This is Coco,’ she says, stroking a hand over Coco’s hair, as Óscar peers down. ‘Héctor is dead.’ 

Óscar startles. 

Imelda can’t look at him. 

She looks at Coco instead, swinging lightly, feet rocked to the side in the way that scuffs her shoes. She looks at the ribbons in Coco’s hair. 

‘Imelda,’ Óscar breathes. ‘Imelda.’ 

He wraps her up in his arms - it’s awkward, she’s never been hugged by her brother like this before, and she won’t let go of Coco’s hand - but he squeezes her, and he’s warm and his shirt is clean under her nose. 

The twins did always like Héctor, the lonely two in her family that did. 

Imelda lifts a hand, holding his back as he presses his face to the side of her head. 

‘Really?’ he whispers into her hair. 

‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Yeah, two years ago.’ 

Óscar’s chest jumps. 

‘Oh fuck,’ he says, ‘come in, come inside. Come on Coco, sweetheart.’  

‘This is Tío Óscar,’ Imelda says, vaguely. ‘Not Tío Felipe.’ Coco only nods, solemnly. 

Óscar takes Imelda’s hand in his empty one, as he fumbles the groceries, and he leads her inside their childhood home. 

———— 

Imelda’s mother is horrified. 

‘You come back here,’ she shouts, all decorum and poise abandoned. ‘You ran off like a little harlot, and now! Now! You come crawling home when it’s all gone wrong!’ She throws a plate at the wall, and it shatters, spewing ceramic across the counters. 

Imelda sits on the kitchen stool, still as stone. She crosses her ankles, tucking her skirts neatly. She rests her hands in her lap. 

‘I’m sorry Mamá,’ she says. ‘I tried, but there’s - I have no money, and - Coco was hungry - ‘

‘Hungry! You came crawling home for hungry after disgracing us -‘ 

‘We were married,’ Imelda says quietly. ‘There was no disgrace.’ 

Imelda can see the twins and Coco out the kitchen window, in the yard. Óscar is crouched, showing her a toy car. Felipe is setting up some kind of obstacle course, Coco skipping between them. They’d taken one look at their mother’s face - Carmen - and had rescued Coco from the kitchen, bustling her away with promises of toys, faces pinched and nervous as they glance back at Imelda apologetically. 

(Not that their electric powered cars are toys. No Imelda, they’re machines, highly sophisticated and complex - Imelda remembers.)

Carmen shouts - she leaves to shout up the stairs to Imelda’s Tía, and then she comes back to shout even more. 

Luisa, Imelda’s cousin, leans around the door frame. 

‘She’s widowed,’ Luisa says. ‘Where else was she supposed to go Tía?’ 

‘With a child!’ Carmen shouts, ‘another mouth to feed, how are we supposed to keep her?’ 

‘I can work,’ Imelda says, as Luisa says ‘c’mon Tía, Imelda is capable.’ 

Carmen throws a tea towel across the room. She leans against the kitchen island, hand on hip, chest heaving, sweat on her forehead. 

‘So can we stay?’ Imelda says. 

Carmen doesn’t say a word. She storms out of the kitchen, disappearing into the house. 

‘Here,’ Luisa says. ‘I’ll show you to your room. Does the little one want to come too?’ 

Imelda blinks slowly. 

‘No, leave her there,’ Coco’s laughter echos through the kitchen, and Imelda sees Óscar fall flat on his back. 

‘Come on.’ 

———— 

Taxco is a small city. Larger, than Santa Cecelia, of course, but remote, in the south of the country, nestled between the mountains. It had taken weeks to get here, Imelda and Coco walking and hitchhiking. Imelda has blisters on her feet and on her hands from carrying the suitcases. Coco had complained and cried and shouted, sobbed herself to sleep for nights on end. Imelda feels like the worst mother in the world. 

But she didn’t know what else to do. 

What was she supposed to do?

The Flores family are fairly well known - and well-off - in town. Imelda’s father and his brothers had owned a successful silver business, made rich off dangerous mining and sales of beautiful, intricate jewellery. Imelda had been training in the trade when she’d run-away. 

She remembers some of it, hard, physical work, melting metal and carving moulds. It’s no secret why the second most successful business in their busy little corner of the city is an opticians - Imelda’s Tía is nearly blind now, years of squinting and peering, creating beautiful intricate pieces. 

Imelda’s Tío is the only one left now, running the business into his old age. His son will take over from him, eventually, and continue to employ most of their extended family. Imelda knows the mines are not as fruitful as they had once been, and safety regulations are slowly being implemented - Imelda imagines these are expensive. 

It had been a fine upbringing. There had been money for dresses and for dolls, more jewellery than Imelda could ever wear - she’d never had her head turned by shiny gems or glittering rocks. She’d had a decent education, and food enough on the table. Even the death of her father in her teen years had only a small impact, the business practically running itself, even in the wake of tragedy. 

Carmen had been stern and practical. A strict mother, with high expectations of her children. Imelda’s not certain the three of them ever quite met them. 

The house is beautiful, objectively. Imelda and the twins’ childhood home, tall and winding, expansive. Imelda always remembers it full of people, heaving and bustling, with no privacy. 

It’s changed, a little. It looks different with adult eyes, a little shabbier, her mother and Tìas are a little older. 

Any yet. What choice did she have? 

—————

Imelda closes the bedroom door behind her and Coco. She runs through their nighttime routine, washing Coco’s face at the little sink in the corner, braiding her hair, and tucking her into bed. 

The covers are old, but soft and clean. The pillows are thin, but Imelda plumps them up until Coco is comfortable and sleepy. Her eyes drooping, and her hand tucking against her chin - Imelda has been trying to get her to stop sucking her thumb, but she’s loathe to take away the small comforts Coco has while they’ve been travelling. 

‘Okay mi amor,’ she whispers, leaning over Coco, pressing kisses to her forehead and cheeks. 

‘Yeah,’ Coco says. ‘Are we staying here now?’ 

‘Yes,’ Imelda says, stroking her hair. ‘Yes, we’re going to stay here now, so you can rest okay? You can sleep in as much as you want, no more travelling.’ 

Coco’s eyes close slowly - she has such long eyelashes, delicate on her little cherub cheeks. 

‘Remember me,’ Imelda sings on a whisper, ‘though I have to say goodbye, remember me…’ 

———— 

Imelda lies in the darkness, absolute and all encompassing. She breathes slowly, listening to Coco’s soft snuffles to her left. She stares at the ceiling until her eyes burn, and then she closes her eyes and prays for sleep. 

———— 

‘Imelda!’ 

Carmen bangs on the door, and tries the handle. The door doesn’t open - it has a bolt lock on the inside, a request Imelda had made of Luisa yesterday. Any room with space for the two of them, a lock on the door. 

Luisa has put them far from the main house, up in the attic. Imelda’s childhood bedroom has been given to her cousin and children, years before. 

(Two years after Imelda had run away, Luisa had whispered the evening before. That’s when she admitted you weren’t coming back, the twins lived there for a bit, but got kicked out when Sofia started having babies. 

It’s longer than Imelda expected her mother to wait.)  

Carmen sighs and shouts again. 

‘Imelda, come and help with breakfast. Get up.’ 

For a moment Imelda fears she’s fifteen again - young and powerless, trapped in a house she hates, her only respite the music she hears played in the square - but Coco sneezes next to her, wet and gross and it startles Imelda out of her memories. 

‘Stay there,’ she tells Coco. ‘I’ll bring you breakfast in a bit.’ 

Coco doesn’t need any telling, curling up into the warmth Imelda has left behind. 

Imelda washes her hands in ice water, until her fingers are red and sore, and she dresses, brushing her hair until she’s neat and presentable. Only then does she open the door to face her family. 

Breakfast is a trial, one Imelda endures well enough. Óscar is kind, watching her with a small, welcoming smile. Felipe avoids eye contact, focusing on his plate with intensity. 

Tía Maria tuts and Tía Gabriela shakes her head, as Carmen serves food with vigour. There are children, and cousins, and when breakfast wraps up and Imelda makes up a plate for Coco, her Tío Alberto turns to her and says ‘and who are you dear?’ 

It’s almost worth it, for the way Tía admonishes her husband for not recognising his niece. 

Imelda fits here, a space made for her around the table, in their home. They’re not welcoming, but they’re not that disparaging either - it’s like she’s never been away, only hidden for a few hours, chasing romantic music in the main square, and is late home for dinner. 

It’s like she’s never been away at all. 

A dream, Imelda thinks, balancing the plate carefully, as she climbs the steps to the attic. Maybe it was only a dream. 

But Coco is real enough, and she gets crumbs in their bed as she clumsily eats, humming and chattering to herself. Telling stories, Imelda thinks, and she makes a note to find her a book, or paper, for Coco to start writing them down. She’s always had a lovely imagination. 

It’s no mystery where that comes from.

———— 

The first order of business, on Monday morning, is school. 

Coco screams. She screams and screams and cries; in a way she never did before Héctor died, and Imelda feels the sting. The sting of not being able to soothe her child - her mother and Tias watch on, peering around the doorway, with heavy eyes. 

‘Please,’ Imelda says, ‘please Coco, you have to go to school. You have to have an education.’ 

Imelda kneels in the dust, and Coco claws at the ground. 

‘Papí’ she mouths breathlessly. 

‘I know,’ Imelda says, ‘I know.’ 

Imelda hugs her knees, making herself small. 

How can she explain this to her six year old? How can she explain that education is the only chance Coco has of not ending up like her? 

That Coco will be educated and capable, that she will not end up staying here, in this town both Imelda and Héctor hated. That the only chance she has of getting out, is a school room, for six hours a day. 

‘What would Papí say?’ Imelda asks. ‘If he was here, what would he say?’ 

Coco cries and snuffles, wiping her snotty nose and wet mouth on the sleeve of her new school uniform. 

‘Remember me,’ Coco whispers.

‘Remember me,’ Imelda sings, ‘remember me, though I have to go away…’ 

They make it through two renditions before Coco quiets, sniffling into her cuff. 

‘School is fun,’ Imelda lies, ‘I loved going to school, you’re going to make new friends, and learn so many new things. Trust me.’ 
 
‘Don’t be a silly billy,’ Coco says, an odd infection to her tone, ‘School is fun, I wish I could go.’ 

It takes Imelda a moment. 

Coco doesn’t quote Héctor in the same way Imelda sometimes does - she was only four when he was lost to them, and now, two years later, she’s lived a third of her life without him. Her memories of him, Imelda is sure, are foggy. 

Coco doesn’t always remember the words he said, or the way he said them, though she remembers a large number of his songs, singing them to herself sometimes.

But this. 

Don’t be a silly billy, Imelda can hear Héctor teasing - to her, when they’d bicker, to Coco when their toddler didn’t want to listen. 

‘Exactly,’ Imelda says, as though her eyes aren’t burning. ‘Exactly, that’s exactly what Papí would say.’ 

Coco nods. 

She lets Imelda wipe her face, lets Imelda take her hand, and deposit her at the school gates and doesn’t cling when the teacher ushers her away. 

Coco returns that afternoon with a drawing she’s made for Imelda, and new song composed at lunch time with her new friend. 

‘She’s called Camila, Mamá,’ Coco chatters, as Imelda picks her up. 

Imelda sets Coco on her hip, stroking Coco’s hair back from her face. She presses a kiss to her cheek. 

‘I love you,’ Imelda whispers, ‘you know that.’ 

Coco mumbles I love you in return, tucking her face into Imelda’s shoulder with a sigh. 

———— 

‘Here,’ Luisa says, showing Imelda the staffing rota. ‘Pa wants you trained up to start work.’ 

Imelda has been expecting this. She’s been given a week’s grace, to sort herself out - to source clothes and schooling, to do the rounds, meeting ladies in the market and familiarise herself with town again. 

It’s more than she expected, truthfully. She suspects Luisa spoke on her behalf - either her or Óscar. Carmen certainly hadn’t. 

‘Of course,’ Imelda says demurely, taking the rota and jotting her name down in the gaps left for her. ‘Of course.’ 

The workroom is hot, with fire burning in the pits, and rows upon rows of moulds. In the far corner, at the end where Tío Alberto sits, is the steel cabinet. It has several forbidding locks, keys that are scattered around their family - insurance, Imelda knows - and inside are rows upon rows of gems and stones, precious and expensive. 

Imelda’s cousin Ralph, Tío Alberto’s oldest and only son, is in charge of procuring the gems - he works at a little desk in the other corner, spending most of his hours on the phone. He shouts, to make himself heard over the general hum of the workroom. 

Despite herself, Imelda is impressed. 

‘Here,’ Luisa says, clearing a bench for her, and showing her the workstation. ‘You remember anything?’ 

‘Some,’ Imelda says, picking up the moulds left out for her. ‘I didn’t really listen the first time around.’ 

Luisa hums under her breath. 

‘Okay,’ she says, ‘we’ll start here,’ and she draws a stool to sit opposite Imelda. ‘This is the mould, you know what it makes?’ 

‘Necklace.’ 

‘… No.’ 

Imelda inspects the mould again. 

This might be more difficult than she expected. 

———— 

‘Aren’t you supposed to be at work?’ Imelda says, idly. 

She’s sat in at the kitchen island, a rare moment of peace. Her Tía has banished her from the workroom - Imelda had split a fine gem trying to anchor it in a ring, and has been kicked out in disgrace. She’s soaking her sore fingers in a bowl of cold water. 

‘We’ve been fired,’ Felipe says, ‘again.’ 

‘I’d say it wasn’t our fault,’ Óscar says, ‘but that wouldn’t be entirely true.’

Imelda laughs despite herself and Óscar quirks a grin. 

‘I’d ask, but honestly I don’t want to know,’ she says. 

Felipe nods, settling down at the island too. ‘That’s for the best,’ he says. ‘Dinner’s not going to be pretty tonight.’ 

‘Are you using beeswax?’ Óscar asks, and Imelda looks at him blankly. ‘For your hands?’ 

Imelda looks down. The water in the bowl is muddy, and when Imelda pats her hands dry on the tea towel, her forefinger on the right hand is cracked and split, her middle fingers starting to callous. 

‘No,’ she says, ‘I didn’t know I was supposed to.’ 
 
Óscar shares a long look with Felipe, before fishing around in the battered leather bag they share. He pulls out a small pot of ointment, sliding it over the counter. 

‘Use this, it’ll help with healing, and stop the wounds getting infected,’ he says. 

Felipe doesn’t say a word, only watches as Imelda twists the lid and applies some to her hands. 

‘Thank you,’ she says, ‘That’s very kind.’ 

‘You’re welcome,’ Óscar says, when it becomes apparent Felipe isn’t going to. ‘Jewellery making is hard. Lord knows we weren’t any good at it.’ 

Imelda pats her hands with the tea towel again, for something to do. 

‘I’m not sure I will be either,’ she says, half laughing. ‘So I wouldn’t worry.’ 

The twins escape unscathed through dinner - Carmen’s ire is focused solely on Imelda. She throws a mug across the table, and Imelda manages to avoid it, wincing as it shatters on the floor. 

Coco jumps, and Imelda pets her back, trying to settle her. 

‘Clean that up,’ Carmen snaps. 

Imelda does, sweeping diligently, cautious of small feet. Once she’s finished, she goes to set the boom away. Carmen drops a plate, smashing it on the tile floor. 

Imelda swallows, and moves to clean it up too. When dessert is finally served, there’s none for her. 

Imelda doesn’t care - she’s not fifteen years old, when her mother’s kindness or anger was the metric on which her days were measured. Coco offers Imelda a spoonful of ice cream, and Imelda accepts. 

‘Thank you mi amor,’ she says, and she smiles as best she can. ‘Thank you darling, that’s very kind.’ 

————

‘Do you like it here?’ Coco says, one evening when Imelda is putting her to bed. 

‘Of course,’ Imelda lies. ‘Do - don’t you?’ 

Coco shrugs. 

She curls up under the covers, her back against the headboard. Imelda has washed her face and braided her hair, so she’s neat and clean as a button. Her pyjamas are new, a soft nightdress in her preferred pink. She has teddy tucked by her side, the little grey bear Imelda had bought when she’d been pregnant. 

Their little attic room is slowly becoming home now. Imelda is - despite herself - fairly comfortable here. 

‘Yes, sometimes,’ Coco says. 

Imelda sits on the end of the bed, one foot tucked under her. 

‘Only sometimes?’ she says. 

Coco nods.  

‘Tíos are nice,’ she says with a grin, and it takes a minute for Imelda to understand she means Óscar and Felipe, not Imelda’s Tío. 

‘They are,’ she says. 

Coco plays with the edge of the bedding, twirling it between her fingers. 

‘I don’t like Abuela,’ she confesses, after long moments of silence. ‘She shouts.’ 

Imelda’s mother does shout. She shouts and snaps and curses, and Imelda’s unsure whether she’s angry because Imelda left, or because she came back. 

‘She does,’ Imelda says slowly. ‘I know it can be upsetting.’ 

Coco nods again, bolstered by Imelda’s validation. 

‘I don’t like it when she throws things,’ Coco whispers. ‘It’s scary.’ 

Imelda pulls her other leg up, sitting cross legged on the bed. She turns to look at the window. Beyond their little skylight is the sky - dark, with stars sparkling. Imelda can see the the lines of the roofs, candles in windows. 

‘Me either,’ Imelda says. ‘I’m sorry.’ 

Coco pats teddy’s head. 

‘It’s okay,’ she says. ‘It’s not your fault.’ 

It is though, Imelda thinks, as she gazes upon Coco’s face. She’s cute, all chubby cheeks and dark, piercing eyes, and Imelda thinks she’ll be beautiful one day. She’s biased, admittedly, but she can see Héctor’s cheekbones, with Imelda’s full lips and round nose. 

Imelda sighs, a deep breath in through her nose. 

‘Things will get better,’ she promises. ‘We’ll - we’ll get used to it here, and things will get better. And you’re doing better at school, and I’ll get better at making jewellery. You’ll see. I promise.’ 

Coco agrees placidly. Her eyes are wide, trusting, and Imelda feels the responsibility heavy on her shoulders. 

‘I promise,’ she whispers. 

————

The Marigold Bridge is stunning. 

Héctor watches eagerly as it emerges from nothing, slowly, petal by petal until the swells fill the empty gap between their world and the living. The sky is filled with that eery, inhuman light, and Héctor can’t stand still, bouncing on the balls of his feet, flicking and picking his fingers. 

He’s only seen the bridge once before - the year previous - and it had been too painful, too much of a shock to take much notice of the an insignificant detail like the bridge, when he’d been consumed with anticipation of seeing Imelda and Coco. 

‘Wow,’ he says, despite himself. 

‘It’s beautiful isn’t it?’ the security lady - Daniela from her name badge. She sits at the counter, hands idle as they watch. 

Héctor is first in line. He’s been here for hours. 

‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘it is. Do you do this every year?’ 

‘Oh yes,’ Daniela says. ‘I like seeing everyone through. I like helping out. I’ll visit in a bit, for the second half of the night. I don’t have that much family anymore, so it’s not so urgent for me.’ 

Héctor nods, though he doesn’t understand the feeling. 

His only family is on the other side of this bridge and he can’t wait any longer - 

‘Ah,’ Daniela says, ‘here we go,’ as the log book in front of her, previously a dull, matted brown, glows. The pages ripple, sparks bouncing off them. Daniela heaves open the heavy tome. Héctor blinks, squinting. 

It has endless pages, he realises, as she flicks through. It never ends, no matter how long Daniela turns the pages, she’ll never reach the back cover. 

‘Héctor,’ she repeats, running her finger down the log book, ‘Héctor Rivera - yes, here you are. You’re on the ofrenda in Taxco, your wife’s family.’ 

Héctor stumbles into the barrier. 

‘Taxco?’ he says, ‘no, no, no, it’s supposed to be Santa Cecelia? Where my wife lives?’ 

Daniela checks again, running her finger along the lines in the book. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘your photo has been put up in Taxco, on your wife’s family’s ofrenda.’ 

She smiles, sympathetically. 

‘Sometimes the living world doesn’t go as we quite expect,’ she tells him, and he’s suddenly aware of the difference of age between them. How long has she been here, to not have close family in the living world? 

‘Off you go now,’ she tells him. ‘I hope you have a lovely night Héctor.’ 

 Fuck, Héctor whispers, as he takes off towards the bridge. Fuck. 

———— 

Taxco is as Héctor remembers, long winding roads, and cluttered houses. Claustrophobic and suffocating. 

The Flores house is as beautiful as it always was - Héctor had nearly died once, falling out a window before Imelda’s father had found him. That was back when Señor Flores was still alive; he’d died suddenly, and in the wake of his death, Imelda had packed up and left with Héctor, running away from the life she was promised. 

He doesn’t imagine Señor Flores is going to be particularly impressed with him. 

Señor Flores - Nicholas - is as intimidating as Héctor remembers. Tall and broad. In death, the weakness that had plagued his last years had gone, and he stands confidently. His bones shine brightly - remembered, clearly - with green and blue decorating his eye sockets. 

He eyes Héctor suspiciously, as he rounds the side of the house. 

‘Ah,’ he says, ‘it’s you then. You’re the scoundrel who stole my daughter away. I remember you.’ 

Héctor plasters on an appropriately chagrined smile. 

‘Yes sir,’ he says, ‘that’s me.’ 

‘I don’t remember your name,’ Nicholas says. ‘You were the musician. The little lad who played the guitar in the square.’ 

‘Ay,’ Héctor says. ‘That’s me. Héctor Rivera.’ 

He inspects Héctor closely, and then reaches out a hand to shake. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘you’re young to be on this side of the bridge. Young to leave your family behind.’ 

‘Thank you,’ Héctor says, swallowing, turning his head to survey the family around them. ‘Thank you - ah.’ 

Imelda steps out of the back door, a platter of food in her hands. She looks - 

‘Oh amor,’ Héctor sighs, regardless of her father to his side. ‘Oh Imelda.’ 

She looks thin and worn, new lines around her eyes and her mouth. Her hair is neatly braided, thrown over her shoulder. 

She looks tired. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he breathes, ‘I’m so sorry, Imelda.’ 

Nicholas sighs. When Héctor glances back, Nicholas is shaking his head sadly, his mouth pulled down in sympathy.  

‘She’s very beautiful,’ he says. ‘I haven’t seen her for years, not since she was still a child. Before she ran away with you.’ 

‘Ay,’ Héctor sighs. He feels overwrought and homesick. ‘Coco?’ he calls, as though she can hear him. 

He finds his little one set up in front of the ofrenda, a basket of snacks to her right, a pile of dollies to her left. She’s chattering away, and on closer listen he realises she’s talking to him. 

‘I’m here,’ he says, ‘I’m here I’m here start again,’ and he sits, wrapping his arms around her as best he can, ducking his head to listen to her burbling. He’s not sure whether Maria and Carmen are her friends at school, or the name of her dollies or her teddy bears, but he listens and commits them to memory. 

Nicholas watches. Héctor feels protective - of his family, of his wife, his daughter. 

‘She’s beautiful,’ Nicholas says quietly. ‘How old?’ 

‘Six,’ he says, ‘she’s six. Her name is Coco.’ 

———— 

Nicholas leaves them then, in search of the rest of his family, and Héctor’s pleased. 

He sits for an hour on the floor with Coco. He’s curled awkwardly, trying to hold Coco in his lap. Héctor rubs a hand over her head - he can’t touch her, he just ghosts straight through her physical body, but it’s a habit, an instinct. If he holds his hand just so, he can pretend. 

He strokes her hair, uselessly, back from her forehead. 

‘Señora Hernández is looking for a wife for her son,’ Imelda’s mother says - calling across the table. ‘I thought we might go to see them. Go for dinner.’ 

Héctor looks up. 

‘Maybe,’ Imelda says, setting a plate of food on the table. ‘Maybe.’ 

‘He’s a shoe maker,’ Carmen says, ‘business is good. Never married.’ 

Imelda nods. 

‘Maybe, Mamá’ she says. 

Héctor frowns, tutting behind his teeth. 

Imelda sits on the chair, her eyes resting on Coco. 

She’s - 

‘I’m sorry, mi amor,’ he says, rising and sitting in the chair next to her. ‘I’m so sorry, I know it’s hard. I know it’s difficult.’ 

Imelda is detached, in a way he’s never seen before. She’s far away - hidden in her own mind - 

She doesn’t dance, when the music starts. She doesn’t sing, though her cousins and Coco do. She doesn’t smile. 

By the time the party slows, it’s late - or very early. Coco has retreated to Imelda’s lap for over an hour, tucked up under her chin, her little fingers tracing the embroidery on Imelda’s skirt. Imelda rocks her back and forth slowly. 

‘Time for bed,’ Imelda says, hoisting Coco into her arms. Óscar presses a kiss to the top of her head. 

Héctor follows slowly, as Imelda and Coco collect his head shot from the ofrenda. Coco clutches the photo, as Imelda navigates the winding staircase to the top of the house. 

Their bedroom is small. The walls are bare, and the suitcases are stacked in the corner, the chest of drawers and cupboard are rickety and leaning. But the bed looks cosy, and Coco’s dollies are lined up neatly, propped on the sole shelf. 

Imelda locks the door behind them, sliding the deadlock into place with a click. Héctor watches their evening routine, as Imelda wipes Coco’s face, and helps her brush her teeth. She tucks Coco in, stroking her hair. 

‘You want a lullaby?’ Imelda whispers, and Coco nods, sucking her thumb. 

‘Remember me,’ Imelda sings, ‘each time you hear a sad guitar…’  

Héctor sits on the edge of the bed, as Imelda gets ready. She undresses, wrapping herself up in an old shirt of his, unbraiding her hair, and brushing it. By the time she climbs under the covers and blows out the candle, Coco is sound asleep, softly snoring. 

‘Are you there?’ Imelda whispers into the darkness. 

‘Yes,’ Héctor says. ‘I am. I’m here.’ 

There’s a sigh. Héctor’s eyes adjust, and he lies down on the other side of Coco, cradling her between him and Imelda. 

‘I miss you,’ Héctor says. 

‘I miss you so much,’ Imelda breathes. ‘I can’t believe it’s been two years.’ 

Héctor can’t believe it either. 

‘I know,’ he says, ‘I never wanted to leave you, you know that.’ 

‘Did you know that they’ve knocked down the nunnery,’ Imelda says, after a pause. 

‘Really? The nunnery? I wouldn't have expected that.’ 

‘And father Brennan retired,’ she says, laughing. ‘He got done for embezzling,’ 

‘No!’ 

Imelda chatters on, for nearly an hour, until her voice fades to a whisper and she can barely keep her eyes open. Héctor takes over then. He describes the land of the dead to her, the buildings, the architecture. He tells her of the friends he’s made over the last year, of his little apartment, small and cosy.

‘It’s nothing to be afraid of,’ he promises her. ‘Nothing to be scared of. One day, when you’re ready, I’ll be waiting for you. But not too soon. I know it’s difficult, but not too soon. Promise me.’

‘I don’t remember the lyrics to my grave,’ Imelda whispers, and there’s a quiet sob as she presses her face into the pillow. ‘I can’t remember the second verse,’ she explains between tears. ‘I’m so sorry.’ 

Héctor sings it to her until she falls asleep. He lies there, listening to their breathing, until the sun starts to peak over the horizon, and he feels the tug to go. 

He fights it, stroking hand over Coco’s hair, tracing Imelda’s features. 

‘I have to go now,’ he whispers, and his eyes burn. ‘I have to go mis amores, I love you so much. Remember that, I love you.’ 

He leaves them curled up, gently sleeping in the worn, tired blankets. 

Héctor doesn’t move, doesn’t rise, but the world around him fades, and he finds himself at the marigold bridge. 

‘Are you okay?’ the check in officer says, a young man. 

Héctor wipes a hand across his face. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Yeah.’ 

———— 

Nicholas is waiting for him at the arrivals gate, leaning back against the wall, relaxed. 

Héctor eyes him. 

‘Come,’ he says, ‘I thought you could do with a drink.’

Héctor shrugs, half heartedly. 

‘Okay son?’ he says, as Héctor moves towards him. 

‘Yeah,’ he says.  

———— 

The fifth plate that Carmen throws that next week catches Imelda on the side of the head. Carmen cleans up the plate and the blood with a sigh, shaking her head. As though it was Imelda’s fault, for being in the way of the thrown kitchenware. 

Imelda holds a rag to the side of her head, as Coco screams and cries. Imelda holds Coco on her hip, rocking her back and forth. 

‘It’s ok mi amor,’ she sings quietly. ‘Mamá’s okay.’ 

That night, after Imelda puts Coco to bed, she washes her hair in the sink, brushing out the matts. She watches the dried blood swirling on the white porcelain sink.

By the time she puts the brush down and braids her hair for sleep, the decision’s been made, settling into her chest. It sits heavy in her stomach, familiar. 

It is, after all, a decision she’s made before. 

———— 

‘Mamá,’ Imelda says over breakfast the next morning, ‘tell me about Señora Hernández’s son. You said he was looking for a wife?’ 

Carmen nearly drops the juice jug in surprise, a pleased smile on her face. 

‘Oh,’ she says, ‘yes of course.’  

———— 

Diego Hernández is older than Imelda expected. He’s greying, maybe forty years old, with drawn features and deep lines in his face. His eyes are pinched, and his mouth is thin. He has small glasses perched on the end of his nose. 

He looks stern. 

‘This is Imelda,’ his mother says, and Diego rises to pull out a chair for her. Imelda sits, folding her hands neatly in her lap, crossing her ankles and tucking them back under the chair - just because she never followed the rules, doesn’t mean she doesn’t remember them. 

‘Pleasure,’ Diego says, taking his seat. ‘You look lovely, this evening.’ 

Carmen and Luisa had dressed Imelda for the introduction - scrubbed and plucked and brushed and braided and squeezed her into a beautiful green evening dress. 

‘Thank you,’ Imelda says, taking a sip of wine. ‘You’re very kind.’

‘Not really,’ he says, ‘but thank you.’ 

It’s easy then, to let the mothers chat - discussing logistics and dates, and plans. Diego’s mother is elderly, older than Carmen and Imelda’s Tías. There’s a sort of desperation in her face and in her voice. The fact her son is unmarried at his age clearly a sore spot. Carmen relates. 

Their home is lovely, and speaks of a wealth that matches, if not exceeds, Imelda’s own family. The glasses are crystal, heavy in Imelda’s hand, the cutlery silver. 

Carmen herself looks lovely this evening, in a burgundy skirt and white shirt. She looks younger. 

Imelda cuts her food carefully, dainty, and dabs at her mouth after bites. 

‘I was sorry to hear about your husband,’ Diego says quietly, taking a sip from his own glass, as conversation between their mothers slows. When Imelda looks up, he’s not looking directly at her, but Imelda understands that she has his attention. ‘Your mother said you were widowed.’ 

‘Yes,’ Imelda says, ‘thank you, it was difficult to loose him. For both myself and my daughter.’

‘You have a daughter,’ he says, eyebrow rising, as Carmen nudges Imelda firmly in the side. 

‘Yes,’ she says, because Coco is not a secret; she will never be pushed aside in favour of a new family, a new husband. ‘She’s six.’ 

Diego smiles, lightly. 

‘She’s in school now,’ Imelda says, because she seems to have the floor, and can’t stop, ‘and she’s doing well. She’s a clever little thing, she likes writing stories.’ 

‘Lovely,’ he says, ‘I have nieces, from my two sisters. They’re a little older than your daughter now, but I remember when they were her age. It’s fun. They’re sweet.’ 

Imelda smiles, despite herself. 

‘Yes,’ she says, ‘they are. She’s going to be cleverer than me, that’s for sure.’ 

Señora Hernández’s laughs, politely. 

 ‘You’ve never been married?’ Imelda says, and she forgets to soften her tone. Carmen shoots a look, but Diego finally looks up in interest. 

‘No,’ he says, and there’s a routine to his answer that has Imelda narrowing her eyes, ‘never found the right woman.’ 

‘Maybe Imelda’s the one,’ his mother says. 

‘I doubt it,’ Imelda quips before she can help herself. ‘But I’m here, I suppose.’ 

Diego cracks. He tries to stifle his laughter into his wine, as Carmen makes apologies for Imelda. Diego breaks a piece of bread, eating politely, trying to school his expression. 

‘Do you like children?’ Imelda says. 

‘I do,’ Diego says. 

‘Do you want children?’ 

Diego glances towards his mother, visibly. 

‘If we were to be blessed with children, I would be grateful. If your charming little girl is the only child in our lives, I’d be content with that too.’ 

Señora Hernández doesn’t like that answer, that’s clear enough. Her smile is tight, lips thin, as she laughs. But Diego speaks carefully - noncommittal. 

Okay, Imelda thinks leaning back. She surveys the dining room again, as Carmen takes back control of the conversation. Money for pretty dolls and pretty dresses - Imelda thinks, everything that Héctor wanted for them. Food on the table, security. 

Okay. 

———— 

The wedding is small. Quick. 

Imelda borrows a dress from Luisa. She doesn’t wear white - with Coco there, Imelda’s not fooling anyone, but she thinks she looks presentable. The dress is blue, and Luisa curls her hair, helping Coco place flowers and hair pins in her up-do. 

Coco looks adorable, in the dress Luisa had managed to rustle up for her - all ruffles and sparkly material. Imelda laughs, as Coco skips around, twirling her skirt and flipping her hair, laughing. 

Imelda doesn’t think she quite understands what’s happening. Selfishly, Imelda’s grateful. She’s not sure if she’d be able to go through with this, if Coco had been disapproving. 

Carmen, of course, is thrilled.

———— 

The church is pretty - thankfully not the one where she and Héctor had been married. 

Carmen and their families go inside, taking Coco by the hand. Felipe follows - their mother has bullied the twins into suits, so both of them look very smart. 

Óscar stays outside with Imelda. 

‘Are you sure?’ he says, as he helps Imelda with her veil and flowers. 

‘What do you mean?’ she says. 

Óscar inclines his head to the wedding, music starting to play. 

‘You don’t have to,’ he says, ‘if you don’t want to. I - I can help you - we can help you more, if you need us. You don’t have to be married if you don’t want to.’ 

Imelda adjusts his collar, smoothing the lapel of his suit. 

‘I know,’ she says, and she does. She doesn’t have to be married, of course. She could live in their family home, work in the workroom. She and Coco, sharing the little attic room. 

But Imelda’s always known that her only way out is marriage. Even before Héctor, even before those long afternoons, their love affair. Far, far before she ever made the decision to run away. 

‘It’s okay,’ she says with a smile. ‘It’s - better this way. Besides, I won’t have to dodge flying kitchenware. Mamá can’t afford to loose any more plates.’ 

‘What if he does,’ Óscar says, holding her wrist gently, to stop her, even as Carmen calls her name. ‘What if he does - throw things, and hurt - ‘ 

Imelda shushes him. 

‘Then you’ll have to fight him,’ she teases gently. 

Óscar half laughs. 

‘I will,’ her promises. ‘If I have to, I will fight him.’ 

Imelda tuts, reaching up to kiss his cheek. 

———— 

Óscar walks her down the aisle. Diego looks very smart, standing at the alter. Coco waves at her. 

Imelda waves back, with a smile, and recites her vows, her hand in Diego’s. His lips are dry, when they kiss. 

The evening celebrations are lovely. Coco dances, and eats her weight in dessert, and Diego plasters on a smile. 

When the party starts to come to an end, Imelda obediently follows Diego to their new home, Coco’s hand squeezed in hers. 

Carmen had tried to take her back to the Flores home, but Imelda had snatched her up before Carmen could. 

She doesn’t trust them. Not with Coco. 

‘Are we staying here now?’ Coco whispers, as Diego unlocks the door. 

‘Yes,’ Imelda assures her. 

‘I set the room for you,’ Diego says to Coco. He crouches down to her level, smiling up at her. 'It has a lovely princess bed, and shelves for your dollies. Mamí told me how much you like your dollies.’ 

His kindness is just enough to ease Imelda’s worry. She tucks Coco into bed, and follows to the master bedroom. 

———— 

The bedroom door closes. Imelda sits on the bed. 

Imelda had been nervous, the first time she had done this - seventeen and unsure. 

This time, she’s just ambivalent. Vaguely curious. 

Diego sits on the chair. He undoes his tie. 

‘I - I don’t want this,’ Diego says, carefully. ‘Not tonight - not. Maybe not ever.’ 

Imelda looks up at him. 

‘Why did you marry me then?’

Diego looks away, out the window. He unbuttons his cuffs. 

‘Because I couldn’t take my mother any longer,’ he offers. ‘Because I needed to get married. Because - because I thought maybe we could help one another.’ 

Imelda watches him. She stares, in the way her mother always criticised and Héctor always liked. 

He meets her gaze evenly.

‘Because you get this from somewhere else,’ Imelda guesses. ‘Someone your mother doesn’t approve of.’ 

Diego pauses - he stares back, and then nods. 

‘Someone she wouldn’t approve of,’ he admits. ‘Someone she doesn’t even know about.’ 

Imelda understands that. 

‘And you need a wife who’ll - who’ll understand,’ Imelda says. ‘And you thought I would.’ 

‘I thought you might be happy to have some security,’ Diego says. ‘For you and your daughter. I thought you might be happy to have a home, somewhere safe. Somewhere where there’s no expectation of you.’ 

‘And you want a wife to play the role, to make your mother happy. To cook and make house, while you work. And you’ll - you’ll get your pleasure elsewhere.’ 

Diego shrugs. 

‘That’s it, near enough.’ 

Imelda pulls back the covers, sliding in and sitting up against the headboard. 

‘I’m not a very good cook,’ Imelda says. 

Diego cracks a smile. 

‘How are you with book keeping?’ he says, ‘you can run the business and I’ll cook.’ 

Imelda smiles. 

‘I’m excellent at book keeping.’ 

‘Well, there you go then,’ Diego says. ‘I - I know it’s not romantic. I know it’s not - one for the history books. But I hope we can be friends.’ 

Friends. 

‘I’d like that,’ Imelda says. ‘I’d like that a lot.’ 

‘Good.’ 

Imelda watches as Diego rises, he sets the candle on the bedside for her. He offers her his hand, and when she takes it, he presses a dry kiss to the back of hers. Héctor would have appreciated the gallantry. 

‘Sleep well,’ he says, ‘you want your little bedfellow for company?’ 

Imelda nods, and Diego leaves the door open behind him. He returns minutes later, a sleepy Coco in his arms. He deposits her gently into the other side of the bed. 

Coco wiggles into the bedding, curling up like a little puppy. 

‘Good night,’ Imelda calls, and Diego smiles as he shuts the door behind him. 

She doesn’t know where he sleeps - the other room or the sofa, whether he leaves for his lover, or if he sits up the whole night. 

What Imelda does know, is Coco’s head on her arm, Coco’s hair under her chin. She’s grateful - so grateful, deep to her soul - for Coco, for her daughter, for Héctor’s daughter. This little piece of them, together. This beautiful, cheeky, funny little girl. 

‘I love you,’ Imelda whispers. 

Coco mumbles back. 

‘Remember me,’ Imelda sings, ‘though I have to travel far, remember me…’ 

———— 
To be continued… 
————

Chapter Text

————  
Chapter Two 
————

Same lips red, same eyes blue
Same white shirt, couple more tattoos
But it's not you, and it's not me
Tastes so sweet, looks so real
Sounds like something that I used to feel
But I can't touch what I see

We're not who we used to be
We're not who we used to be
We're just two ghosts standin' in the place of you and me
Trying to remember how it feels to have a heart beat

‘Two Ghosts,’ by Harry Styles 

———— 

————

Héctor likes Shantytown. 

There’s something romantic about the sprawling expanse, balanced precariously over the water. Something charming about the patchwork of houses, shacks, the rickety creaks of wooden boardwalks. 

Héctor steps carefully, a basket balanced in the crook of his arm. He waves at the ladies drinking, though it’s barely ten in the morning. He nods his head to the gentlemen gambling, and smiles at the children, avoids the football that’s kicked his way - smiles at the peals of laughter; the ball had nearly taken his head off. 

He raps his knuckles on the doorway, of the third shack from the left, after the main junction. It’s small, as they all are, and opens onto the water. 

‘Mamá?’ he calls. 

Susanna answers, and he pushes aside the blanket hanging over the doorway, letting himself in. She’s sat on the mattress on the floor, the littlest child cradled in her arms. She’s rocking, soothingly, gazing out towards the water. 

This is how she spends most of her days. 

Susanna is young, younger than Imelda is in the living world. She’d died barely more than a child, mother to four children. Héctor feels protective of her, like she’s his sister or his daughter, maybe. He never remembered her being so young, but he’d been a small child when she died. 

She’s remembered by her sister, Héctor knows. A middle aged woman who lives in Mexico City; who barely escaped the poverty she was born into. Héctor’s Tía is the only thread tying his family to the land of the dead - on her death his mother, and the little ones will vanish.  

His father is already gone. Héctor can’t help be relieved by that. 

In comparison, Héctor is shamefully well remembered. His bones are shiny and white, his features vibrant. It’s embarrassing, to be in such good health, here where most aren’t. But Tía Chelo had told him, firmly, after two glasses of wine that they were grateful he’d taken the time to seek out his mother. 

‘Most don’t,’ she’d told him firmly, swaying into his shoulder. ‘Its kind of you. She’s a sweet girl. You’re welcome here Héctor. Now, and later, when your bones start fading too, you’ll be more than welcome - it happens to everyone eventually. Death is inevitable. Even here.’

‘Good morning!’ he says, cheery. He sets down the basket and unpacks the contents - breakfast, pastries and milk, calcium is good for strong bones, he tells the little ones - a few books he’s picked up for her, a notebook and pen. A puzzle and a quiz book, anything he thought might bring her a modicum of amusement. 

‘Good morning,’ she says, turning slowly. ‘Did you sleep?’ 

‘Ay,’ he says, ‘I did, did you?’ 

He didn’t. 

Héctor spends his nights restless, tossing and turning, but she doesn’t need to know that. 

‘Oh yes,’ she says, ‘the littles ones slept quite well.’ 

Héctor suspects that’s a lie too, but he doesn’t call her out on it. What good would it do? 

‘Lovely,’ he says, taking a seat. The baby in her arms is younger than Coco, now, curled up, dozing. ‘Lovely. Look what I brought you.’ 

Héctor shows her the basket again, and tries not to be disappointed when her gaze wanders, back out towards the water. 

———— 

Tía Chelo is sat outside her house when Héctor eventually leaves. 

She leans back in her rickety chair, balancing on two legs, as she flicks through what appears to be a smutty magazine. 

Héctor doesn’t ask, though he does stop when she waves him over. 

‘How was Día de los Muertos?’ she asks, folding the a corner page down, and tucking the magazine into her skirts. ‘I didn’t get to ask you.’ 

Héctor takes the offered seat. 

‘It was - okay,’ he says. 

It had been okay. 

Imelda had been okay. Coco had been slightly better than okay, though he’d been upset to find them back in Taxco. He doesn’t understand how Imelda made that decision - whether there was a problem with the house, in Santa Cecelia, or if she’d run out of money, lord knows they didn’t have any savings. Whether she thought the education was better, that there was more opportunity for Coco. 

Or whether she’d relented, returning to her life before him. 

Héctor fears he’ll never know. 

‘She put my picture up though,’ he says, thoughtfully. ‘If - if she blamed me, she wouldn’t have done that. Imelda’s prideful enough not to.’ 

Tía Chelo clicks her tongue. It’s a sympathetic noise. 

‘It’s not about blame,’ she tells him gently. ‘The living don’t blame the dead, only the fallibility and indignity of dying. Hypocrisy, as they’ll follow the same way, sooner or later. She won’t blame you for dying. It’s a hard life though, a young widow and a child. She might - she might not have had any other choice.’ 

Héctor nods. 

‘I worry her family won’t treat her well,’ he says. ‘I worry my little girl won’t have the opportunities I wanted for her.’ 

‘I worry my daughter will never leave her piece of shit husband,’ Tía Chelo says simply. ‘I worry she’ll appear here on the day I leave this world. I worry my granddaughter will be pregnant again, and it’ll bring her here to me. It’s no good to worry about the living world Héctor, it’s outside of your power. You’ll drive yourself mad with it.’ 

‘I already feel mad,’ he says with a laugh. 

‘Musicians,’ she says seriously, ‘you might be, you know.’ 

Héctor does laugh at that. 

‘True,’ he says. ‘That’s true.’ 

———— 

Héctor’s apartment is on the forty-third floor of a weaving, winding block. He can’t think too much about the stability of it, otherwise it makes him feel vaguely ill - but he supposes he’s dead. Can’t die again. 

Probably. 

He likes the little apartment - it’s a space that feels like his, and only his, for the first time ever. Everything else he’s ever had has been shared, with siblings, with friends, Ernesto, Imelda. This little apartment, two bedrooms, a living space-kitchen space, is his. 

He loves it and hates it. 

He sets the basket down on the sideboard, unpacking the remaining food, tidying them away. 

He sinks down into the little armchair, curling his legs up, slouching down. 

It’s fine. 

———— 

Héctor can only wallow for so long, before Imelda’s voice in his mind smacks him up. 

Get up, she shouts, what are you doing, wasting your time? Get the fuck up.

She’d always had such a way with words. 

It’s not hard to find the arts district, in the end. He’d sourced a guitar not long after arriving - out of habit more than anything else, he’d felt oddly naked to not have one around, though he didn’t play it for long months, too sick with grief. 

In the two years he’s been dead, he’s pottered - written a song or two but nothing good, nothing real or relevant. If anything, he’s embarrassingly out of practice. 

But musicians are musicians, living or dead - and they love to jam. 

He heaves his guitar on his back, strolls to the right part of town, and it’s easy, to find a friend, a group, to strum with, to sing with. Héctor smiles and, after an hour, laughs, genuinely. 

It’s good for him to have hobbies other than haunting shantytown. 

(’Come to my house,’ he’d begged his mother, ‘please, mama,’ 

Susanna only shook her head. ‘No Héctor,’ she tells him firmly. ‘No.’

He doesn’t understand why. Tía Chelo only shakes her head sadly, taking him by the hand, and making him a coffee in her little shack.) 

‘You should come back, amigo,’ Carlos says, shaking Héctor’s hand with vigour. ‘Man, you’re really good. We could do with a guitarist like you, in our group.’ 

He tells Héctor about his band, that meets every Thursday and Héctor has nothing better to do, so he says sure. 

———— 

Diego is a shoe maker. 

He’d gone against his family, setting up his own business as young man, and now runs a workshop employing eleven staff. He spends his evenings sat at his little desk, in the corner of the living space, pouring over inventories and order forms. When Imelda washes his shirts, the laundry always smells like leather and rubber. 

He splits out his salary fairly, showing her the numbers so she can understand; money for the house, an allowance for Imelda, savings, money for Diego. 

‘And Coco,’ he says, one evening, watching Coco colouring at the table. ‘Shit, I should - savings, for Coco, for college or something - education.’ 

Imelda has been meeting Coco’s needs from her own allowance - honestly, it’s more than enough to cover her needs, clothes, treats, and leave Imelda a little money of her own. Diego doesn’t ask for unspent funds or receipts the same way other husbands do, and Imelda had already started setting money aside. 

‘I’ll open an account for her,’ he promises. ‘A savings account for her.’ 

‘You don’t have to,’ Imelda says out of stubbornness - why is she arguing against money for Coco? - ‘She’s not your daughter.’

‘No,’ he says, ‘but we’re not likely to have children together, and I think she’s very sweet. She deserves a step-father who can provide for her.’ 

Imelda tries not to hear that as as slight - against her, against Héctor - and she bites her tongue. 

‘Thank you,’ she forces herself to say. ‘I appreciate it.’ 

Diego says nothing more on it. In their monthly finance meetings - when he pays himself his salary from the business and does his accounting, he gives her a payment slip for her records. Each month he pays money into an account in Coco’s name. Savings, for her education. 

Imelda tries to feel grateful. 

———— 

Being Diego’s wife is far better than Imelda ever imagined. 

It’s also far, far worse. 

The house is lovely, tall ceilings, neat furniture. It’s comfortable and clean, and private, just the three of them. Imelda tidies and cooks. She sleeps well, in the comfortable bed in the master bedroom. There’s money and clothes and the house is warm and not draughty. There’s no mothers to hide from - though Diego’s mother pops around on a regular basis, a pain but an expected one. No need to tip-toe, no plates to avoid. 

Diego is amiable - says hello to Coco, thanks Imelda for cooking. He takes himself off to his study in the evenings, or else excuses himself. He’s polite and kind. 

Everything is - by all accounts - wonderful. 

Imelda has never been so fucking bored in her entire life. 

It’s a little after lunch - Coco is at school, Diego at work. 

The house is clean, dinner prepped. Laundry hung out to dry. The shelves dusted, and the sheets folded. There’s groceries in the cupboards and pantry. 

Imelda sits on the arm of the chair carefully, so not to rumple the covers. She surveys the house. 

What the fuck is she supposed to do? 

———— 

Imelda wanders aimlessly around the house, straightening chairs and checking cupboards are closed. She gazes at the garden - she could plant something, she supposes. That seems like an appropriate wifely hobby. Pretty flowers or vegetables maybe. 

But it also seems like a lot of effort, and Imelda knows nothing about gardening. She sinks down, and sits on the garden step. 

The outside is warm, the weather has been nice, and there’s a cooling breeze. It’s vaguely pleasant. Imelda had forgotten, somehow, somewhere along the line, how much she disliked pleasant. 

It had been, of course, one of the factors that sent her into the arms of that silly little vagabond who played in the square for money. 

Héctor had been exciting in a way Imelda had never experienced before. He’d been quick and sharp, witty, matching Imelda effortlessly, challenging her. 

He’d been vulnerable, in a way Imelda never associated with men. Writing of love, of pain, of emotion. She used to sneak away, hiding from her chores, to spend her afternoons with him in the town square. 

Héctor had been sweet on her, that was obvious. She’d made him work for her affection, but he’d never doubted it. Every smirk, every caught eyes, he’d known how much she’d cared for him. 

And later, he’d known how much she loved him. 

He’d known. Hadn’t he? 

Imelda sighs, leaning her head forward until her forehead rests on her knees. She presses her palms to the back of her neck. 

Héctor had known he was loved. She’d told him. She had. 

She just wishes she’d told him more. That she’d told him every day, every hour, how much she adored him. 

Imelda sits quietly. She slows her breathing, until she’s almost silent. She strains her ears, eyes closed. If she’s quiet enough, if she holds her breath, and sits so very still, maybe she’ll hear Héctor in the study, tinkering with his guitar, composing. 

If she listens closely, maybe she’ll hear him calling her Imelda I have an idea, Imelda can you call this venue, see if they’ll book us? 

Maybe she’ll hear him talking to Coco, his low voice, her little giggles. 

Imelda doesn’t cry. She goes into the shed, and finds a pair of gardening gloves. She spends the afternoon on her hands and knees, weeding the path. She has nothing better to do. 

Héctor would have laughed. 

———— 

‘Coco needs shoes,’ Imelda says, as Diego leaves the kitchen. 

It’s late, and Imelda had spent hours cooking - a chore she hates, but acknowledges is necessary. Coco had cleared her plate, and eaten seconds, a sure sign she’s in for a growth spurt. 

Diego had eaten, neatly, quietly, as Coco chattered on about her day. He’d risen, put the dishes in the sink, and then gone to leave. 

‘Okay,’ he says placidly, ‘I can get her some. We’ll get her measured.’ 

Imelda grits her teeth at his ease. At his amiable, accommodating nature. 

‘Are you going to clean up after yourself?’ she snaps. 

Coco’s head flies up, her little eyes wide. She - after a moment’s thought - tucks her head back down, playing with her fork as though she were still eating. 

‘Excuse me?’ Diego says, turning back to the kitchen. 

‘I spent three hours cooking that meal,’ Imelda says, her temper fraying. ‘You ate in fifteen minutes. A you going to wash your dish?’ 

She’s being unfair. 

She also doesn’t care. 

Diego glances to the sink, his dirty dish placed carefully. 

‘I apologise,’ he says. He steps forward with precise steps, his shoes clacking on the stone floor. He takes the dish, rolling up his sleeves, reaching for the soap. 

Everything about him is precise. Poised. 

Imelda hates him. 

‘Not like that,’ she says, ‘you’re doing it wrong.’

Diego doesn’t say a word, the door closing quietly behind him. 

Imelda puts her elbows on the counter, burying her head in her hands, grasping her hair between her fingers. When her hands stop shaking and the temper has cooled, she rises. 

Coco is still sat at the table - she hasn’t been dismissed. She’s kicking her feet gently against the spools of the chair. 

‘I’m sorry,’ Imelda says. ‘I’m sorry darling.’ 

Coco nods. 

‘That’s okay,’ Coco says. 

It’s not, but Imelda appreciates the kindness. 

———— 

‘I’m sorry,’ Diego says to her, two days later. 

They haven’t spoken since their argument, though Imelda acknowledges it’s more her fault than his. 

Héctor would never leave her stew this long. She was lucky if he’d give her an hour, before he was there - serenading her, poking his nose into the crook of her neck. Are you still mad? he’d whisper, and Imelda would grit her teeth so not to laugh.

‘It’s fine,’ Imelda says. ‘I am too.’ 

‘I’m sorry that you’re not happy here,’ he says. 

‘It’s - it’s not that simple,’ she says kindly. ‘I’m not unhappy,’ she offers, and manages a small smile. 

He smiles in return. 

———— 

‘Are you afraid?’ Héctor asks, over his shockingly poor hand of cards. ‘Of the final death?’ 

Tía Chelo shrugs. Tío José matches, throwing down his cards in disgust. 

‘Nothing to be afraid of,’ he says. ‘You’ve already died once.’ 

Héctor nods, slowly. 

Each day it becomes more obvious that Susanna is fading. Her bones are sore, cracked and dirty. Her joins ache her, Héctor thinks, and she spends her days curled up in bed. She interacts with the children when they ask her, but she doesn’t seek them out. 

Their time together is drawing to a close, that much is obvious. Héctor wants to talk to her, to ask all the things he wondered about, but he hates to add to her suffering when time is so precious. 

‘My wife knows her name,’ he says quietly, taking a shot. Tía Chelo brews moonshine in her shack. ‘My wife will remember her, she could have a little more time.’ 

‘You have to know them in the living world,’ Chicharrón snaps, ‘or have your memories passed on by someone who did.’ 

‘I did,’ Héctor says, though he’s not certain it’s true. Imelda had known Susanna’s name - they’d visited the grave, on return to Santa Cecelia. But did they ever talk about her properly? Did he ever tell Imelda, how Susanna used to sing? How she used to dance, when she was young and pretty and still pretending to be happy? 

‘It’s not enough,’ Tía Chelo tells him. ‘It’s not - don’t think of it as an exact science. You told this person, so that’s one more person to remember. And if I tell that many people then you’ll never suffer the final death. It’s about importance. About love. About impact. Susanna’s sister is likely enough to tie her here, your wife’s anecdotes are likely not, and that’s not anybody’s fault Héctor. It’s not your fault.’ 

Héctor doesn’t really believe her. He shuffles the pack of cards haphazardly, dealing them out for another round. 

‘It disproportionately impacts the poor,’ he says bitterly. 

‘Who are you calling poor?’ Chicharrón complains. 

‘Those who die young,’ Héctor says, ‘who don’t have far reaching families. People who have humble lives, never get to see their loved ones in this world. It rewards the famous, the infamous, they’ll never die -‘ 

‘Is that a reward?’ Tío José says, frowning at his cards. ‘Did you even shuffle these? C’mon Héctor.’ 

‘Isn’t it?’ Héctor says. 

Tía Chelo laughs, shaking her head. She pours another round of drinks, as the children run past, rocking and shaking their precariously balanced table - it’s getting late, Héctor can hear the children being called home. 

‘You’re so young,’ Tía Chelo says fondly, ‘So young, that death seems like a punishment. But Héctor, mi amor, to never die, to never leave, to never be at peace, that’s the punishment. Is it sad, that some people are never reunited here? Yes, of course. Very sad. But maybe their work is done. Their task is finished, and they can move on. They can leave.’  

‘Or maybe it’s neutral,’ Chicharrón says. ‘It’s not good, or bad. It just is. Death isn’t a moral failing or accomplishment. It just is. Something that happens to us all, one day.’ 

‘I don’t like to think it’s punishment,’ Tío José says. ‘Just that they’re ready to go. It’s time.’ 

‘What if they’re not?’ Héctor says. ‘What if they’re not ready?’ 

‘Why would you not be? When no one in the living world remembers you, what more is there? Time to go.’ 

Héctor examines his cards. 

‘I don’t see why you’re all here,’ he says, ‘here, when there are - you could come and stay with me, you don’t have to be all the way out here on your own -‘ 

Tía Chelo laughs. It’s a belly laugh, rattling her ribcage, shaking her bones. ‘Oh Héctor,’ she says, ‘I’ll explain it to you one day, when you’re older.’ 

She pats his cheek, fondly, holding his face for a long moment, smiling at him. 

‘I’ll explain it to you,’ she says, ‘when you’re ready to understand. But trust me, it’s nothing to be afraid of. And one day, as you’ll be here for your family when they die, I’ll be on the other side waiting for you. Okay? When the final death comes for you, my dear young one, your Tía Chelo will be waiting to meet you.’ 

‘What makes you think there’s something more?’ Héctor says. 

Chicharrón swings his arms out wide - he knocks the bottle off the table, thankfully empty. ‘We’re here aren’t we?’ he says. ‘Why would there not be?’ 

Héctor doesn’t have an answer to that - not that there is one, or at least not one they’ll ever know. 

‘These cards are shit, Héctor,’ Tío José complains. ‘Did you even shuffle these?’

‘I did,’ he says, turning his attention to his own hand. ‘I swear.’

———— 

‘Ah, Héctor,’ Chicharrón calls, as they wrap up. Tía Chelo has already left them for her bed, calling rude jokes behind her; Tío José is snoozing, leaning back in his chair, hat pulled low over his eyes. 

‘Ay?’ he says, looking back. 

‘Chelo said you - you play guitar?’ 

Héctor nods, lightly. 

‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘for a long time.’ 

Chicharrón has a smile on his usually cantankerous face. 

‘Would you bring it?’ he says, ‘next time? Give us a bit of a show. I used to be something of a musician myself, you know.’ 

Héctor bites back the instinctive refusal. He doesn’t really perform, anymore. It doesn’t feel quite the same without Ernesto and Imelda. 

But Chicharrón looks so hopeful, and Héctor knows how he hates to ask, to inconvenience. It must have taken a lot for him to voice it. 

Héctor nods. 

‘Ay,’ he says, ‘I’ll bring the guitar. I’m out of practice, but I can give it a go.’ 

Chicharrón smiles, nodding. 

‘I’d like that. Thank you Héctor.’ 

Chicharrón’s thanks echoes around Héctor’s head, as he catches the tram back to the arts district. 

I’d like that. 

Héctor had forgotten, somewhere along the line that his music was for others, as much as it was for himself. That music is supposed to be shared. It’s not supposed to be hoarded, played alone in a flat, quietly, privately. 

Héctor pulls out his notebook and the stub of a pencil - a habit he’s carried for most of his life - and starts to jot down songs he thinks Chicharrón might enjoy. He nearly misses his stop, so entranced he is by his set list. 

When he gets home, he unhooks the guitar from it’s stand, and begins to play. 

———— 

‘Hola Mama,’ Héctor calls, rapping his knuckles on the doorway. Susanna calls quietly from inside. 

She sits, the baby cradled in her lap. She gazes out towards the water. 

Héctor sinks to the floor. He makes pleasantries, small talk. Susanna doesn’t care. 

‘Why did you marry him?’ Héctor asks eventually, because why not? 

Susanna barely blinks. 

‘Had to marry someone,’ she says, ‘he was kind to children.’ 

‘Not a high bar,’ Héctor mutters. He remembers his father - a stern, foreboding looking man. His breath stunk of beer. 

‘He never hit you,’ she says, ‘he never hit me.’ 

‘No,’ Héctor accepts, ‘no he didn’t.’ 

Héctor had always been under the impression that his father had been vaguely perplexed by his growing family. That he wasn’t quite sure where the babies were coming from, how he had so many. He’d never been warm or friendly. Héctor doesn’t remember is as particularly kind. 

But, he supposed, he’d never been unkind either. 

‘Did you love him?’ Héctor asks, because he can’t help himself. 

‘I didn’t hate him,’ she says. ‘He could be kind at Christmas. He liked the lights.’ 

Héctor nods. 

Héctor imagines Susanna counting down days to Christmas - waiting for when he might be kind, like it was marked on a calen- 

‘He missed his first wife,’ she says. ‘She died in childbirth. He was never really the same after that.’ 

‘-what?’ 

‘I imagine he’s with her now,’ Susanna says, and it’s the first time Héctor sees her smile. ‘Hopefully they’re happy.’ 

Héctor can only blink. 

‘I - think - he’s -‘ Héctor swallows, it feels unbearably cruel. ‘I think he’s gone mama. He’s been forgotten.’ 

Susanna clicks her tongue, impatiently. 

‘So has she,’ she says, ‘doesn’t mean they’re not together. I hope they are.’ 

Héctor had never known about a first wife. Had never even imagined a life for his father before he was the drunkard in the chair. 

‘They’re together,’ Susanna says, firmly. She turns her gaze to Héctor. 

She looks like Coco, same pursed lips, same eyes. 

‘Of course they are,’ he says. ‘Of course.’ 

Susanna nods. She rocks the baby, back and forth. 

‘You could put that in one of your songs,’ Susanna says. 

‘You want me to write you a song?’ Héctor says. 

But she doesn’t answer. 

———— 

He does, in the end. When he’s supposed to be practising for Chicharrón, for his impending performance in Shantytown; but he’s hooked with an original melody - fixated in a way he hasn’t been in years, in the way he’d through was gone. 

He scribbles with the tiny end of a chewed pencil, and he’s run out of pages in his notebook, so he writes in the kitchen tile, the guitar in his lap. 

It’s a sad song - they usually are, but Imelda always loved the sad songs - about Christmas lights, and a glimmer of kindness. 

Héctor finishes it with exhilaration; taps out the beat with a wooden spoon on the back of a saucepan, can hear fiddles and a sax in his mind. 

He plays it, a quiet acoustic version for Susanna next time he sees her, and he’s graced with a smile. 

———— 

‘You should come with us,’ Maria says to Imelda, as she drops Coco off at school. 

Maria is one of the other mothers, Imelda recognises her, vaguely. Wonders if they were acquaintances at school. She’s pretty, long dark hair, pointed face. 

‘Sorry?’ Imelda says. 

‘We go for coffee,’ Maria says, smiling, gesturing to a group of other mothers. ‘Or tea, if you’d prefer. Or cake. Whatever you like.’ 

Imelda gazes upon the group. 

Tea and cake, Imelda thinks. Just like her childhood, the events she was expected to go to as a young woman, as a child. Tittering women and girls, pretty and posing and - 

‘Sorry,’ Imelda says. ‘I’m meeting my mother.’ 

‘Another time then,’ Maria says, with a smile. 

‘I’d like that.’ 

Imelda pretends the laugher - peals, squeaky and shrill - that echoes after her is kind. That it’s not mocking. 

———— 

‘Can I learn?’ Imelda says, as Diego shrugs on his coat. ‘Can I come to the shop a couple of days a week and learn how to make shoes?’ 

‘You want to work?’ he says. Diego turns, frowning. ‘For what, money? Is the allowance not enough?’ 

Imelda sits half way up the staircase. It’s late, Coco is already in bed. She folds her hands in front of her, resting in her lap, fingers interlaced. 

‘You’re not happy here,’ he says, and it’s not a question. 

‘I’m not un-happy,’ she says, and that’s the truth. 

‘Then what?’ 

‘I’m bored,’ Imelda says, ‘if I have to walk around the market and make small talk again I’m going to loose my fucking mind. The house is clean and the dinner is ready, laundry is done, and Coco’s at school. That won’t change, I promise, I - I understand our arrangement. But my god, I’m loosing my mind. I’m so fucking bored.’ 

Diego blinks. Once, twice, watching Imelda. 

‘You’re bored,’ he says, ‘you want to come work in the workshop, because you’re bored.’ 

‘If I wanted to be a housewife, I’d have married the man my mother picked when I was sixteen,’ she snaps. 

‘Instead you ran away,’ Diego says slowly, leaning on the bannister, arms crossed. She rarely has his whole attention, but when she does it’s striking. He has beautiful dark eyes. ‘You ran away with a penniless musician, traveled the country playing in bars and clubs.’

Imelda spreads her hands, as if to say yeah, and? 

‘I used to book gigs,’ she tells him, ‘I’d deal with the money, take bookings. I’d figure out how to get from one place to another. We settled in Santa Cecelia when I got pregnant - that’s where Héctor was from, originally, and he had a house there - but up till then -‘ 

Imelda shrugs. 

‘And now you fill your days cooking and making house,’ Diego says. ‘Bored out of your fucking mind. What did you do in your mother’s house?’ 

‘Mostly tried to stay out of the way, of her and of the kitchenware.’ 

Diego’s mouth quirks like he thinks she’s joking, and then he sobers when he realises she not.

‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Why not, come learn how to make shoes. What could possibly go wrong?’ 

Héctor had said something similar to her once - all those years ago, guitar on his back, Imelda’s hand in his. 

What could go wrong? he’d said, already half running for the train. What could possibly go wrong? 

You could die, Imelda thinks. They hadn’t factored that in to their plans. Had never occurred to them, through illness and injury and lack of food, even in the dire moments, it had never occurred to them that they weren’t invincible. 

Youth, Imelda thinks. 

‘Can’t be any harder than making jewellery,’ Imelda says. 

‘Were you any good at that?’ 

‘No, not at all.’ 

Diego laughs, closing the door behind him. 

———— 

‘This is Luis López,’ Diego introduces Imelda, ‘he’s my business partner, he runs the day to day.’ 

Luis is a tall man, broad in the shoulders. His suit is a tight across the chest - as though he’s put on a little weight in a short period of time. His beard is neatly trimmed. 

He narrows his eyes at Imelda. 

Imelda has spent nearly a decade squaring off against Ernesto; she doesn’t find Luis intimidating in the slightest. 

‘Pleasure,’ she says, offering her hand. He shakes gently, mustering a small smile. 

‘I understand you’re going to working with us, a little.’ 

‘Yes,’ Imelda says, before Diego can. ‘I’m looking forward to learning.’ 

‘Great,’ Luis says.

He shares a heavy look with Diego, but Imelda moves, stepping in his eye line. 

‘Come,’ he says, ‘let’s find you a workspace. Have you ever worked with leather before?’ 

Imelda had once made a guitar strap out of red leather for Héctor. It had been time consuming and painful, the stitching had been wonky, though Héctor had loved it. 

‘Not really,’ she says. 

———— 

Imelda spends the afternoon tracing out shapes in leather, and then passing them off to Daniela to cut. A young woman, younger than Imelda. She has a sweet smile, and her hands are steady and strong. 

Imelda takes the measurements from the list Diego had passed her, and carefully traces with a steady hand. 

‘What about half-sizes?’ she asks, leaning back and stretching her shoulders. 

‘Not cost effective,’ Luis says, ‘too small a customer base.’ 

Imelda frowns. 

‘Are these all standard?’ she says, twenty minutes later. ‘Do all people really all have feet these sizes?’ 

Luis sets the clamp down with force, the dull thwack sounds out of place in the repetitive harmony of the workshop. Imelda catches Daniela out of the corner of her eye. Daniela smirks, turning her head away from Luis. 

‘Yes,’ Luis says. ‘They do.’ 

Imelda doubts that. The shoe soles look like the cutouts Coco makes for her dolls - impractical and ill-fitting. 

Imelda toes off her flats, subtly, as Luis is immersed in stitching some boots. She takes a cut piece of leather and presses it against the bottom of her foot. Daniela kindly pretends not to notice. 

The leather is too narrow across the widest part of her foot, the ball of Imelda’s foot inching over the outer seam. But the heel is too wide, Imelda’s foot not sitting flush against the edge. 

She puts the leather back on the table, and slips back on her shoes. 

They’re not particularly well fitting, now that she thinks about it. The sole is thin - nothing like the rubber she sees around her in the shop - and the side press uncomfortably against her little toe. She often has blisters; when she, Héctor and Ernesto had been travelling, Imelda’s feet were bloody more often than not. By the end of their two years gallivanting, her feet had been calloused and cracked. 

‘What about custom?’ she says, handing the leather cut outs to Daniela. 

‘Too complicated,’ she whispers back, taking a small tool and punching neat holes in the leather. ‘Too much management in taking orders and making sure the right styles and measurements. We wouldn’t be able to batch cut material like this.’ 

‘Would that be a bad thing?’ Imelda says, ‘wouldn’t that reduce waste?’ 

Daniela shrugs. 

‘Maybe,’ she says, glancing over to Luis. 

Imelda surveys the work room with new eyes. It’s inefficient, she thinks, the way materials are stacked, there must be waste. 

The way the shoes are cut - they must have sizes that are unpopular or low selling. Do they make the same number, not taking into account customer variation? 

Imelda catches Luis’ eye. He frowns, looking at her, as she rests her elbows on the table. 

Imelda doesn’t look away. 

————

That evening, she sits on the end of Coco’s bed. 

‘Can you do me a favour?’ Imelda says. 

Coco obediently lies on the bed - on her back and then on her belly - feet in Imelda’s lap. She reads her book, sounding out the words, as Imelda measures and examines, compares Coco’s feet to the diagrams in the library book. 

She carefully sketches out Coco’s muscle and bones, with a gentle pencil marks, labelling them on her skin. Coco has a small blister on her baby toe, and the beginning of a callous at the base of her big toe. 

‘I’ll make you some shoes,’ Imelda promises, jotting down the measurements. ‘I promise. They’ll be comfy.’ 

She wipes Coco’s feet with a flannel, scrubbing away the pencil marks. 

‘That’s clever of you,’ Coco says. ‘Will you really make them?’ 

‘Yes,’ Imelda says. ‘Well. I’ll try. I promise.’ 

She doesn’t understand Coco’s smile, but she appreciates the kiss Coco presses to her cheek. She holds up the picture of Héctor so Coco can kiss him goodnight, and then she tucks Coco in. 

Imelda closes the bedroom door behind her, and catches sight of Diego from where she’s stood at the top of the stairs. 

He’s putting his coat on, buttons it closed, and leaves her a glance as he opens the front door. 

‘I’m headed to the workroom,’ he calls, ‘there was a problem with the shipment.’ 

Imelda nods, tying her dressing gown closed. 

‘Be careful,’ she calls back, ‘it’s getting late.’

He inclines his head to her, and then closes and locks the door behind him. 

Imelda wonders if he does meet his lover in the workshop, or if he goes elsewhere. 

———— 

‘She’s a nightmare,’ Luis hisses, and Imelda pauses outside the workshop door. 

It’s a Friday afternoon, and Diego has persuaded Luis to let Imelda have another shift at the workshop. She’s had three now, and after each one she’s been - 

Happy, actually.  

She’s butchered a pair of boots, and nearly stabbed both herself and Daniela trying to cut the expensive leather. The rubber stinks and is impossible to stitch, and Imelda likes it. It feels like a challenge. 

‘She’s not,’ Diego says, but he sounds amused. ‘She’s - lovely.’ 

‘She’s a pain in the arse,’ Luis hisses and he sounds - 

He sounds irate. Annoyed. 

‘She’s enjoying herself.’ 

‘She wants to rearrange the workshop,’ Luis says. ‘She says there’s too much waste.’ 

There’s clearly something wrong with Imelda - something sick, and twisted in her head, because Luis’ irritation - 

It bolsters her. 

‘We do waste quite a lot of material -‘ 

‘Shut the fuck up.’ 

Imelda rattles the doorknob, loudly, before pushing open the door. 

Luis’ mouth is pursed in a grimace. His jaw is locked, his neck tight. 

‘Good afternoon!’ Imelda says cheerily, unbuttoning her coat, hanging it on the coat stand. ‘How are you today? Thank you so much for letting me back.’ 

Luis’ eye twitches. 

‘Welcome,’ he says, through gritted teeth. 

Imelda beams at him. 

———— 

The workshop is quiet this afternoon.

Diego - and Luis - are responsible and fair business owners. They’re ahead on quantity for the month. There are no urgent or last minute orders, so they’ve let the staff have the afternoon off. 

(‘But won’t that impact pay?’ Imelda had said two weeks ago, on a similar Friday - she’d been envisaging the business owners in town, growing wealthy on their workers’ labour. ‘Won’t they loose wage?’ 

Diego had smiled - that small, tight smile that says he wants to laugh, but won’t. Imelda wonders if he’s been conditioned out of laughing, whether he was taught as a young boy, that it wasn’t manly, wasn’t masculine? Or whether he’s always been this way, tightly controlled. Reserved. 

Héctor used to laugh with his whole mouth, so she could see all his teeth. It should have been predatory, like a shark, but it wasn’t. He was always just goofy looking and god Imelda loved him. 

Loves him. Still. 

‘No,’ Diego says simply. ‘The staff are paid an annual wage, not on commission. Their monthly salary is the same, whether they work this afternoon or not.’ 

Imelda has immense respect for that.) 

Imelda settles herself behind the desk the she and Daniela share - the one directly across from Luis’ desk. Imelda assumes it’s so he can keep a close eye on her. 

Daniela has left some leather out for her, to practice on, and a half made pair of boots that they’ve been crafting together. The workshop is still, everything neatly tidied away, work spaces clean, projects resting. 

It smells like leather. 

Imelda is - for the first time in a very long time - fairly content. 

Diego is pottering but his own desk, set aside from the main workroom, shuffling papers, flipping through the ledger that he guards resolutely, ferrying it between the work space and their home. 

He and Luis talk quietly. Luis watches Imelda for long minutes, she’s always been good at knowing when there’s eyes on her, but he’s relaxed, leaning back in his chair. Imelda helps herself to some beautiful red leather, and using everything that Daniela has taught her, starts to measure carefully. 

Luis evidently decides she can’t get into too much trouble, because when she next glances up, he’s rocked back on his chair fully, balancing on two legs, and Diego laughs at whatever he’s said. 

Imelda ignores them. In another world, it could be Héctor and Ernesto in the corner, composing. If she tilts her head slightly, squinting her eyes, it could be Héctor leaning back with that gangly ease he always had. 

Imelda takes a deep breath. She’s marked out the shape she wants, consulting her little notebook carefully. Once she’s certain, she helps herself to the scalpel, and begins to cut. 

Smooth, confident cuts. Not sawing away, or hacking, as Daniela had accused her last time. But gentle. Precise. 

Slow. 

Imelda doesn’t initially notice when Luis starts singing. She’s well used to background noise - both at home, and in the workroom, and with Héctor, who could barely make it an hour at a time without humming, signing or tapping out some rhythm. 

Luis, when she glances over, is bent over his own workstation. He handles the rubber - he’s resoling a pair of boots - with confidence and ease. He’s on autopilot, Imelda can see, and it speaks to his years of experience. 

He’s humming to himself, singing a few lines of an old folk song, tapping his foot along. He doesn’t know all the words, singing the bits he does know, humming the rest. When he finishes, he moves on to another song - more upbeat, that Imelda knows too. 

And another. 

Diego is writing, carefully in his ledger, small glasses on his nose. Luis taps his foot, nodding his head with the beat, as he rummages for tacks. 

They’re both ignoring her. Letting her exist without expectation. 

‘Like real people do,’ Imelda says, into the quiet workshop. 

They both look up.

‘The lyric?’ Imelda says, keeping her eyes resolutely on her workstation, ‘we should just kiss, like real people do, that’s the bit you’re missing.’ 

Luis sings it, louder, filling in the lyrics. 

He has a nice voice, actually, low and deep. Old fashioned, like the songs she remembers her father and Tíos singing when she was young. 

‘Great song,’ Luis says. ‘Wonderful.’ 

‘I like honey come home better,’ Imelda says, ‘same writer.’ 

‘Hmmmm,’ Luis says pointing a finger, eyebrows rising. ‘Yes, that’s a hell of a song. How does it start?’ 

He hums a few off key notes - it’s a tricky one, it had always taken Héctor a few moments to pitch it - and Imelda finds it before he does. 

She doesn’t overthink it, letting the first lines roll off her tongue, though its been years since she sung something other than remember me. 

Luis joins in, after the first verse, pitching against her. 

It’s a sad song - the good ones always are - about strife. About love lost. Someday, they sing, you will miss my head, lying next to yours in our marriage bed. 

‘Oh god I love my vices,’ Imelda sings, a half laugh in her voice. ‘But they’ve taken me to places I never thought I’d go.’ 

‘You have a lovely voice,’ Luis says, as they draw to a close. The half tacked rubber lies on the table in front of him, forgotten. ‘You have a beautiful voice, wow.’ 

Imelda shrugs, risking a glance up. 

‘You sing well too,’ she tells him. ‘You have an ear for it, I can tell.’ 

Luis glances over his shoulder, Diego is still writing, a smile on his face. Luis’ face is pink, and he fusses with the measuring tape. 

Imelda is startled to realise he’s flustered. 

She laughs. She can’t help it. 

‘You do,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Do you play? I think you play, I can tell.’ 

Luis nods. 

‘Guitar,’ he says, ‘a little. Not, it’s not very good but,’ he shrugs. 

‘You have musicality,’ Imelda tells him, settling herself back on her stool. ‘I can hear it. You have a talent. And music isn’t always about being good.’ 

Luis only nods. 

‘Thank you,’ he says awkwardly. ‘Do you - do you play? You sing so beautifully.’ 

‘No,’ Imelda says. ‘Not really. Not anymore.’ 

‘You’re young for a ‘not anymore’,’ Luis notes. 

‘Am I?’ 

Luis nods again, and they fall into quiet. Imelda sorts her red leather. 

She doesn’t feel young, she’s been a mother for six years already. A wife for longer, though she accepts she and Héctor were painfully young when they wed. 

‘Thank you,’ Imelda says, later, when she’s wrapping up and heading to pick up Coco. ‘Truly, I know -‘ she shrugs, ‘I know it must be a pain, to have the owner’s wife here, when I don’t really add anything, but - I’m grateful.’ 

Luis examines her closely. Like he hasn’t really seen her before. 

‘You’re - you’re welcome here,’ he says slowly. ‘Whenever you want.’ 

———— 

That night, when Diego has left them to - ostensibly to collect something he’s forgotten from the workshop, but Imelda suspects he’s gone to see his lover - Imelda takes Coco by the hand. 

‘Come here, amor,’ Imelda says. ‘Tell me, what’s your favourite song? Not remember me.’ 

Coco launches into an out of key rendition of one of Héctor’s other songs, an acoustic one, with a fast beat. It’s about running, leaving town and never coming back. Imelda’s pleasantly surprised that Coco remembers it. 

Imelda sings it at the top of her lungs, using her diaphragm properly, hitting those top notes, belting the falsetto lines in the way Héctor always hated. 

Coco laughs and sings along, skipping around the kitchen. When she finishes Imelda picks one of her own - an old favourite - and Coco sings along. 

Imelda scoops up Coco, setting her on Imelda’s hip. 

Together they dance. 

————

Héctor brings the guitar with him, next time he goes to shantytown. Susanna doesn’t come out of the shack, but the children do. They’re curious.  

Chicharrón sets up his chair right by Héctor, swinging his legs eagerly. 

‘Are you taking requests?’ Chicharrón says. 

Héctor has spent two weeks perfecting a set list. He should have known better. 

‘Yes,’ he says, ‘of course, what do you want?’ 

Chicharrón’s smile is wide - it softens his face, makes him look younger. 

The guitar sounds ring out across the water, and Héctor takes a deep breaths as he begins to sing. 

———— 
to be continued … 
———— 

Chapter Text

————
Chapter Three
————

Fall into me and I'll catch you, darlin'
We'll dance in the street like nobody's watching
It's just you and me and the song on repeat in my head
Playing over and over
I'm drunk on your voice, high on the moment
I'd fall for you twice, if that's what you wanted
I'd give you my life from now 'til forever
I'm falling in love with you
Over and over again

‘Fall Into Me,’ by Forest Blakk

————

Nicholas Flores’ house is -

Quaint, Héctor thinks, trying not to judge. It’s cute.

Honest.

He’s made the trek across the city, to one of the little suburbs where Imelda’s father lives with his brother. By suburb, he means that skyline isn’t quite as towering or leaning as the city centre. The houses are a mere six stories, instead of forty, and there’s little gardens and outside space.

The house is small, though Héctor imagines they don’t need a huge amount of space for two grown men. The walls are a pretty blue, with neat shrubs lining the pathway. It’s a little too tidy, for Héctor’s taste. Too clinical. Feels like they’ve chosen plants and decor because they’re supposed to, because that’s what you’re supposed to do for a house.

But it’s nice.

It’s nice.

Héctor knocks firmly on the door, a bottle of rum in hand, outstretched as though it will fight away the monsters lurking on the other side.

Héctor’s never had much success with family.

Either his or Imelda’s.

Inside is as neat and quaint as the out. It feels like a home their wives could step into, at any moment, and be vaguely content.

‘Welcome, Héctor,’ Nicholas says, ‘I’m pleased you’ve come to see me. Thank you.’

He takes the rum with a pleased smile.

‘Thank you,’ he says, ‘that’s very kind, come, sit. How have you been?’

Time doesn’t hold the same weight in the land of the dead as it does in the land of the living. It had been both a difficult thing to understand, and intrinsic, inherent.

Héctor’s skeleton body doesn’t need, in the way a flesh body does, so what’s the rush? He doesn’t hunger, though he can eat; he doesn’t tire, though he can sleep. He doesn’t age. So what if a meeting was delayed an hour, or he took nearly a year to go and visit his father-in-law?

Neither of them are going anywhere. If time in the living world runs, then here it stagnates.

Nicholas look the same, of course, as he did when Héctor saw him last Día de los Muertos - the blue-green around his eyes bright and cheerful, his stature open and tall.

His brother is settled comfortably in the arm chair, leaning back. He’s smaller - shorter than his brother, but Héctor can see the resemblance. They look like the twins, actually, same cheek structure, small mouths.

‘Gael’ he introduces himself with a half wave. Héctor is clearly not important enough for him to rise from his seat, and Héctor’s fine with that.

‘Thank you,’ Héctor says, ‘for your welcome.’

‘Sit down,’ Nicholas says, ‘let me get you a drink.’

Héctor sits, on the edge of the sofa, carefully so not to crease or mess up the cushions. Gael half laughs, and Héctor smiles.

‘I once got chased out of the Flores home,’ Héctor says. ‘Nearly died then and there, climbing out that window, can’t be too careful.’

‘That’s in the past,’ Gael says. ‘Besides, it that was hilarious. We laughed for weeks - I can’t believe Nicholas didn’t get you, tiny whip of a thing you were.’

Nicholas laughs from the kitchen, and Héctor - reluctantly, and against his own common sense, relaxes.

————

‘You must have other family,’ Héctor questions, hours later over dinner, ‘right? Your mother or - don’t you have a sister who passed?’

Héctor remembers, vaguely, just before Nicholas had died, Imelda attending a funeral for her Tía. She’d snuck away in the confusion afterwards, and they’d hidden in town, dancing to the music played through bar doors - they were too young to be allowed in.

Nicholas and Gael share a look.

‘We do,’ he says simply. ‘We don’t really see each other.’

‘Rude words were spoken,’ Gael says. ‘After Imelda - left. The family - they didn’t understand.’

Ran away, Héctor’s brain substitutes.

‘It wasn’t only that,’ Nicholas says, half shrugging. ‘That was just - the trigger, I think. Family is complicated.’

‘I understood,’ Gael says, ‘Smart girl, she was always itching to leave. I was sorry to hear she’s back.’

Héctor sighs. He leans back, looking at the immaculately painted ceiling, and feels that old familiar guilt.

Héctor’s long made peace with who he is. With what he is.

An orphan, at a young age. A vagabond, a street rat. Scoundrel. Musician.

No money. No home. Always on the run, always on the move.

He was never going to fit into Imelda’s world; wealthy, proper. So she’d rejected all that and joined him in his, and he’d never really questioned that. Whether his first decision as her husband - to leave town - had been irresponsible. Whether he should have stayed, put himself to work, to provide.

They’d been young, he acknowledges, drunk on love and freedom, and he’d wanted to show his young wife the world - that love songs he’d compose for her, and his shoulder for when she wanted to sleep, was enough. More than.

But - Héctor reflects slowly - it hadn’t meant for a peaceful, secure life. Imelda had never known hunger, or financial insecurity before she met him.

And then he’d died.

Leaving his wife a widow, with a child to raise on her own. From outside perspective, he’d ruined her life.

‘I love her,’ he tells Nicholas slowly. ‘And she loved me. Imelda - she was - she was - She never fit either, into the roles she was supposed to. So we fit together, in the rejection of that. She was never going to be happy cooking dinner and ironing.’

Nicholas nods.

‘Stubborn,’ he says, ‘I remember. She was.’

‘Oh,’ Héctor laughs, ‘the most stubborn person I’ve ever met in my life. Her and Ernesto nearly came to blows more than once, neither of them wanting to back down. I seem to gravitate to stubborn, obstinate people.’

Nicholas laughs.

‘Clever,’ Héctor says, and he misses her, ‘Imelda is so clever, she needs a challenge. She’s easily bored, and when she’s bored there’s trouble - the twins are exactly the same, I think it’s just more obvious with them. Imelda never set fires to anything, but she did pick fights, arguments. She did cut her dress hems by six inches, and ruin laundry, just to get a reaction. The twins may have blown up that oil canister, but Imelda knew where the matches were, and she’d been bored that week.’

Gael laughs, heartily, from his non-existent stomach. Nicholas has a strange, understanding look on his face. As though he’d never considered his daughter like that before.

‘She was never bored with me,’ Héctor assures him, as though it means anything. ‘She was a lot of things - not all of them good, but she was never bored.’

————

Héctor leaves with leftovers stacked into a take away box for him, and half a bottle of whiskey tucked under his arm - an exchange.

‘Come back,’ Nicholas calls, ‘whenever you want. You’re welcome here Héctor.’

‘You just want to keep an eye on me,’ Héctor calls back and he’s pleased to hear Nicholas laugh.

‘What would Imelda say,’ he says, ‘if she found I’d let you run amok in her absence.’

‘I don’t think she’d be surprised,’ Héctor laughs.

————

‘You’re doing it wrong,’ Luis snaps, and Imelda grits her teeth so she doesn’t throw the boot across the workshop - that would be immature and unnecessary.

‘How?’ Imelda snaps back, ‘fucking show me?’

‘Don’t swear,’ Luis says. ‘This is a professional environment.’

Imelda nearly bites through her tongue; her jaw creaks at the pressure.

Daniela sniggers into her handkerchief, sat next to Imelda.

‘Here,’ she says kindly. ‘Let me show you. I got it Luis.’

Luis storms out of the workshop, Imelda can hear him pause to shrug on his jacket, and then the door closes.

‘Is he always like that?’ Imelda says, as Daniela gently guides her hands, showing her how to thread the stitches properly.

Daniela’s mouth twitches.

‘He’s a fair boss,’ she says diplomatically. ‘He’s a good manager, and advocate. He has high expectations, but that’s part of the job.’

‘It’s a wonder he and Diego even get on,’ Imelda gripes, unfairly, and she doesn’t miss the look Daniela and Roberto share - an older man, with lines on his face and a kind smile. He works at the station opposite Daniela, and Imelda has heard them gossiping under their breath. Roberto has grown up children and young grandchildren, he’s worked on shoes for years.

‘They’re old friends,’ Roberto tells her slowly. ‘They grew up together. Their loyalty runs deep. You won’t - you won’t ever get between them.’

‘I don’t want to get between them,’ Imelda sighs, ‘I just want something to do, and making shoes is the only interesting option I have.’

‘His mother died,’ Daniela says, ‘Luis. Last year. He’s not - he’s not quite over that. He was her only child, they were close.’

Against her will, Imelda feels a pang of sympathy.

‘He’s carried on well,’ Roberto says. ‘He’s a brave boy.’

Imelda purses her lips.

Behave, she tells herself sternly, and she’s disappointed in herself. She’s let her mouth run away, somewhere where she’s still not quite welcome.

Of course the staff here would speak highly of Luis. Of course they admire him. Of course they won’t talk ill of their boss. Skilled jobs like these are important to livelihoods.

Imelda likes Luis too, to be honest. She just likes having a sparring partner, and Luis is the closest she’s found since she’s been back.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘I just - he rubs me the wrong way. I do genuinely like him.’

Daniela smiles.

‘I think he knows that too. You get on his nerves, but I think he likes you.’

————

Imelda wraps up for the day - she’s aware, suddenly, awkwardly that she’s in the way. That her time in the workshop is nothing more than a favour to Diego. To give his bored, wilful wife something to do.

To amuse her. To keep her out of trouble.

Imelda returns to her beautiful, spotless house. The rest of afternoon stretches out in front of her; long, quiet.

Lonely.

Imelda’s eyes burn. She wipes at her cheeks in frustration - she considers for a moment whether she should go back to bed, but she shakes it off. Imelda makes her way to the kitchen, and potters - taking meat out for dinner, making a marinade.

It’s fine.

————

‘Sit, sit,’ Carmen says, and Imelda tucks her skirt around her, as Carmen fusses with the kettle. She pours tea, and offers Imelda a plate of biscuits. Imelda helps herself.

‘So,’ Carmen says. She’s leaning forward in her chair, peering at Imelda closely.

‘So what?’ Imelda says.

‘So, how is Diego?’ Carmen says. ‘Are you - things are well? I saw his mother the other day and she seems happy.’

‘Things are well,’ Imelda says, helping herself to another biscuit. ‘Seem to be, anyway.’

Carmen nods eagerly.

‘And he doesn’t have issue with your -‘

Imelda blinks, looking at Carmen.

‘No,’ she says eventually, when it’s clear that Carmen isn’t going to finish. ‘No, he has no issue with my daughter. He gets on well with Coco.’

‘Oh, good. Lovely.’

‘Why am I here ma?’ Imelda sighs, leaning back in her seat. ‘You asked me to bring fruit from the market.’

‘You’re my only daughter,’ Carmen says. ‘Is it wrong to want to share a cup of coffee with you. I thought - we could be close now.’

‘Now I’m married,’ Imelda corrects. ‘Now I’m doing what you want. Not now I’m home. You weren’t particularly impressed with my return.’

‘Well you left so suddenly,’ Carmen says. ‘Why are you being like this?’

Truthfully, Imelda hasn’t slept well. She’s also annoyed with Diego - he’s managed to stain a shirt Imelda only washed yesterday, with shoe polish.

An additional chore given to her by her mother, and no, Imelda’s not feeling particularly sympathetic.

‘You’re the one who threw plates at my head,’ Imelda says, ‘What did you expect?’

‘Imelda.’

‘I’ll see you on Sunday,’ she says. ‘Thank you for the coffee.’

————

Imelda doesn’t mean to bump into the twins on her way home - she’s gone the round about way, to avoid the main square where the musicians play.

Óscar and Felipe are sharing lunch, sat on a bench outside the shop where they work. Imelda had forgotten - they change jobs so regularly she looses track of where they’re supposed to be working.

They look up as she stops.

‘Thank god,’ Óscar says, ‘I thought you were ma.’

Imelda forces a laugh.

‘Rude,’ she says. ‘How dare you.’

They laugh, though Felipe turns his head to his sandwich. He won’t meet her eye.

‘How’s it going?’ she asks.

‘Well,’ Óscar says. ‘Well enough. Thanks. And you?’

‘Yes,’ Imelda says. ‘Fine.’

The pause is awkward.

‘Okay,’ Imelda says when it’s clear that they have nothing more to say to her. ‘Well, have a good afternoon. Don’t set anything on fire.’

Óscar laughs.

‘We’ll try.’

Imelda’s not sure why she’s surprised - as she makes her way up the hill, back towards Diego’s home. She and the twins were never particularly close as children. The age gap between them a little too big, and Imelda had an instinctive avoidance of babies. They were loud and smelly, dribble-y, and Imelda had seen babysitting on her horizon, so had spent most of their first year of life making herself scarce.

She’s never known them as adults - she’d been only sixteen when she’d run away with Héctor, the twins merely nine years old. Now they’re men - just, at eighteen.

She’d thought of them as allies, in her mother’s house. Sharing the family burden, taking it in turns to endure their family’s judgement. She’s not sure why she thought that would make them friends, but they’re not.

It’s fine, Imelda thinks. There’s a lump in her throat, and she swallows firmly.

Felipe has been cold towards her. Óscar has been kinder - she puts it down to him being the one to find her first, to have a moment with her before she was absorbed back into home. He’d comforted her; he’d given her away at her wedding.

Imelda takes a detour, into the market. The expensive end, where her mother never let her shop as a child. There’s trinkets and jewellery, a general hustle and bustle of people.

Imelda stops at a stand - wooden creations - and inspects closely. There’s little figurines, cars and bikes and trucks. Insects with moving wings, and little bugs with moving legs.

She doesn’t think too much about it, only selects a handful of figures and hands over money to the seller.

————

Coco finds them in her purse later that evening - she’s such a nosey child.

‘Get out,’ Imelda snaps, ‘those are not for you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because they’re not,’ Imelda says. She sends Coco a look, but Coco only laughs.

Such a spoilt little girl.

‘They’re for Tíos,’ she tells Coco. ‘Pick out which ones you think they’ll like best.’

Coco does, with an obsessive focus that she does not apply to her school work.

She’s chosen by the time Imelda plates up dinner - the little car for Felipe and the butterfly for Óscar.

‘Because Tío Óscar likes planes,’ Coco explains, ‘and I think he’ll like the wings. And Tío Felipe likes engines, I think he’ll like the little car. It has a battery inside it.’

Imelda can’t disagree.

————

There’s a knock on the door.

Héctor startles.

He rolls out of the armchair, where he’s been lying for - he checks the clock and then the calendar, it can’t be Thursday already can it? - about three and a half days.

He’s been composing, and he’s on the brink of a breakthrough, he can feel it.

The flat is a mess, now he looks at it. Paper and notebooks scattered, pens and pen lids, ink stains on the carpet, and plates with half eaten dinner.

Oopsie.

There’s another knock at the door, loud and insistent.

‘Okay!’ Héctor calls, avoiding the debris on the floor, and fumbling the lock. ‘Alright!’ he calls.

He opens the door -

‘Oh, hello,’ he says.

He’s met with Alejandra - a young friend from Shantytown. Her hair is in two long braids, over her shoulders, and her dress is old fashioned; she’s been in Shantytown for a long time. She has a sweet little face, she lives with Tía Chelo, Héctor knows, who’s looking after her until her mother passes.

‘Alejandra,’ he says, ‘amor.’

‘Tía!’ she calls, and he sticks his head out of the door, to see Tía Chelo hurrying down the corridor.

‘Oh Héctor,’ she says, ‘we weren’t sure which one was yours.’

‘What are you doing- do you want to come in?’ he says.

Alejandra shakes her head, as Tía Chelo reaches out and takes his hand.

‘Oh Héctor,’ she says, ‘darling. It’s - Susanna - she doesn’t - she doesn’t have much more time. We wanted - you - if you want to come -‘

Héctor can’t breathe.

He grasps the doorway, leaning on it heavily.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes of course. I’m - let me.’

Héctor scrabbles around for a moment, grabbing his coat, his hat.

‘Let’s go.’

Alejandra holds his hand the whole journey.

————

Things are not as bad as Héctor anticipated -

Susanna’s shack is busy, with friendly, worried faces, peeking at the door, shuffling and peering.

Tía Chelo barges past, elbowing and shoving, until she and Héctor pull back the curtain and step into the shack.

Susanna is curled, comfortably, on her little bed. She’s wrapped in blankets and propped up on pillows. There’s a cup of tea, still steaming, in her hands. She looks tired, certainly.

Héctor - despite his life, despite all the hardships he’s endured, has never seen death - and he’s not sure what to expect from a final death, whether it’s better or worse than loosing life in the living word.

He hadn’t expected such comfort.

‘Hola Mama,’ he says, crouching down and taking a seat. He reaches out a hand, taking hers.

‘I don’t understand this fuss,’ Susanna mutters, taking a sip of tea. ‘Silly, it is.’

Héctor half smiles.

‘Silly indeed,’ he says, ‘you look the picture of health.’

Susanna quirks a smile.

‘Silly,’ she chides.

————

Héctor sits outside with the children. Daniel sits with him, tucked under his arm, and Amelia sits on this other side. Alejandra does a spectacular job with the rest of them, chaperoning a game of football - although it looks to Héctor that they only have the vaguest idea of the rules.

‘It’ll be alright,’ he says, giving Amelia a squeeze. ‘You’ll see.’

Needless, useless comfort.

But it’s all he has.

‘Will you play something for us Cousin Héctor?’ Amelia says.

‘Yes of course,’ he says, ‘if you can rustle up a guitar for me,’ and he laughs as she hurries off.

————

It’s only later, when the children have disappeared to bed, and Alejandra sits comfortably with Tía Chelo - her legs are thrown over Tía Chelo’s lap; Tía Chelo strokes her hair in slow strokes - that Héctor lets his face drop, and he sighs.

‘She’ll never get to see her sister,’ he says to Chicharrón. ‘Her sister will arrive, now, in the department of arrivals. And she’ll be gone. How is that fucking fair?’

‘It’s not,’ Chicharrón says. ‘It’s not. But -‘

Chicharrón sighs, deeply. He tilts his head back, to look at the sky.

‘I mean, the living world isn’t fair, I don’t know why you thought the land of the dead would be.’

Héctor swallows.

‘That doesn’t help,’ he says, petulantly. Chicharrón laughs gently through his nose.

‘I know.’

His hand is heavy on Héctor’s shoulder.

‘I think that she’s not needed anymore,’ Alejandra says. ‘But like, in a good way, you know?’

Héctor shakes his head, gently. ‘I don’t, sweetheart.’

‘We’re here for as long as the living world need us, for as long as our loved ones need us. And when we’re no longer needed, we get to go. We get to rest. Her sister is here now, so she’s done what she needed to.’

Chicharrón tuts, quietly under his breath, but Héctor is slightly comforted.

‘That’s a lovely thought,’ Héctor says.

‘I’ll be here when my mother passes,’ Alejandra says, ‘but then when my sister does, I’ll be done. That’s alright with me.’

Héctor smiles - at her cheery smile, at her pragmatism.

‘What if I never see my daughter again?’ Héctor says. ‘What if, when she dies, no one in the living world remembers me?’

‘Your grandchildren will,’ Alejandra says, ‘won’t they?’

Héctor blinks, startled. Coco is six years old - grandchildren are a foreign concept, one that’s far far away.

‘I suppose,’ he says. ‘Yeah, I guess so.’

It’s vaguely comforting, that he will, one day - in all likelihood - see both his wife and his daughter here, in the land of the dead.

‘I suppose,’ Héctor says.

————

Imelda manages to catch the twins after church - she leaves Coco in the grasp of Imelda’s mother and Tías for a moment.

She’ll make it up to Coco later.

‘Here,’ Imelda says, grasping Óscar’s arm. ‘For you. I - I saw them and thought you’d like them.’ She holds the little parcels out, in the palm of her hands.

‘I - I hope we can be friends,’ she says.

‘Why?’ Felipe says, and when he looks her in the eye, she’s taken aback by how cold he seems.

‘You’re - you’re my brothers,’ she explains uselessly. ‘I hoped that we - maybe can have a relationship.’

‘And what happens when you leave again?’ Felipe says. Óscar elbows him.

‘Leave?’ Imelda says.

‘Leave. When you’re fed up of being here, and you leave. Again. Will it be another eight years?’

‘Felipe,’ Óscar hisses.

Imelda sucks in a deep breath. She squeezes her thumb, digging her nail in.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘I didn’t think about how my leaving would impact the two of you. That was wrong of me.’

Honestly, she hadn’t given the twins a second thought. They were younger, children still. They were boys. As far as she was concerned, they were fine.

Felipe’s stubborn mouth, his pinched eyes, tells her that they were not fine.

‘Just go,’ Felipe says.

Imelda does.

————

Imelda is tucked in bed, when there’s a quick knock on the door.

It’s not Coco. Coco doesn’t knock, she sees Imelda’s room - the master bedroom - as an extension of her own space. There’s little to no privacy between them, she wanders in at any time or moment that suits her, regardless of Imelda’s state of dress.

Despite herself, Imelda finds it charming. It won’t last forever, sooner or later Coco will grow, and things like knocking and being invited in, things like privacy and locking doors, will become more important. But right now, Coco swings the door open at will, and Imelda has never cared if Coco catches her changing - why would she?

‘Come in,’ Imelda calls, and Diego opens the door gingerly. As far as Imelda knows, he hasn’t stepped foot in here since their wedding nigh.

‘Sorry,’ he says, when he sees her in bed. Imelda is washed and changed, and is idly reading, making rude and disparaging notes in the side of her book.

‘It’s okay,’ she says, and it’s a little early for bed - Coco has only just gone down herself, but Imelda had found herself at a loose end, and was ready for the day to end.

‘I wanted to catch you,’ he says, ‘before I - go - anyway. My mother has invited us for lunch on Sunday after church.’

‘Oh, okay,’ Imelda says. ‘That’s no trouble. With Coco?’

‘Yes,’ he says, ‘yes of course with Coco. It’ll be food, and drinks. Maybe music. Casual.’

‘Okay. Let me know what shirt you want and I’ll iron it.’

Imelda makes a mental note to set a dress aside for Coco. The little pink one, maybe. It’s very pretty, should make a good impression.

‘Sure. Sure.’ Diego says.

He’s loitering.

‘Luis will be there,’ Diego says, and Imelda doesn’t understand why he’s telling her. ‘His sister and her family have been invited. He’ll be there too.’

‘Okay,’ Imelda says. ‘That’s fine. I know you’re old friends.’

‘I know you don’t like him that much -‘

‘What?’ Imelda says, looking up from her book. ‘I like him just fine. He’s funny, to be fair.’

‘You snap at him.’

‘Yeah, because he snaps at me!’

Diego half laughs.

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Alright. Good - good night.’

Diego shuts the door carefully behind him, making sure it clicks, and then Imelda hears his footsteps down the hall.

That was weird, she thinks, frowning.

What does she care if Luis attends lunch at Diego’s mother’s house? Imelda’s the outsider here, that much she’s painfully aware of.

————

Héctor spends the next week in Shantytown. He flits between Chicharrón’s shack and Tía Chelo’s, spending his days crouched by Susanna’s bed.

He talks, when she falls into silence. But sometimes, when the sun hits the water just right, or the tea Héctor brings her - in chipped tea cups - has just the right amount of sugar, Susanna talks.

She tells him about Santa Ceceila, as it was when she was young. Of the dances she used to go to, and the fights she used to get into - with her brother, with her mother, with her friends, but never her father. Susanna was a daddy’s girl through and through, a kind, gentle man who doted on her; fourteen years her mother’s senior, Susanna’s father had always been old in her eyes.

Does she know? Héctor wonders.

From the small smile on Susanna’s face, he thinks she does.

————

‘You’re a handsome boy,’ Susanna says quietly.

Héctor can only laugh.

‘Thank you,’ he says, ‘you’re sweet.’

‘You should go, Héctor,’ she says. ‘Can you do that for me? Can you go, take the children and go. You don’t need to be here for this.’

Héctor opens his mouth, but he’s not sure what to say.
‘I’ll - Ma - Mamí -‘

‘Please,’ she says, ‘mi amor.’

Héctor’s throat is thick, and he swallows around a lump.

How can he say no?

‘I don’t want - I don’t want you to be alone, Mamí,’ he breathes.

Héctor leans over, from where he’s kneeling. He reaches out for her hand, and she lets him take it. She squeezes with a strength he didn’t think she had.

‘I won’t,’ she says. ‘Will you send in Chelo? She - she knows - it won’t be long now. A few hours I think. Please amor.’

Héctor swallows. He leans over and presses a kiss to the side of her head.

‘I love you,’ he says simply.

Susanna smiles.

‘I love you bebé,’ she says, and she strokes a hand down his face, her thumb resting on his cheekbone. ‘I love you.’

————

Tía Chelo goes easily, when Héctor calls her. She nods with a seriousness that he often doesn’t see from her.

‘I’ll come too,’ Alejandra says, and Héctor frowns.

‘You shouldn’t - she’s a - child -‘

Tía Chelo smiles.

‘Come on, mi amor,’ she says to Alejandra. ‘She’s been here longer than you Héctor, sweetheart. She’s older than you, though she doesn’t look it. Look after the children, we’ll see to Susanna.’

Héctor stays in Shantytown that night - first playing with the other children, as the murky sun sets, kicking the ball around, and then later, he settles himself into Tía Chelo’s hut. He rests his head on his palm, elbow on the table.

The sun is only starting to rise again, as Héctor dozes, when Alejandra opens the door and joins him.

‘She’s gone now,’ Alejandra says, taking a seat. ‘It was peaceful.’

Peaceful, Héctor supposes, is all they can hope for.

‘What’s it like?’ he says.

‘Bright,’ Alejandra says after a moments thought. ‘It’s - it’s bright.’

Bright.

————

‘Behave yourself now,’ Imelda hisses, crouching down in front of Coco. ‘You understand?’

Coco suppresses a grin.

‘Yes Mama,’ she says. ‘I understand.’

‘Let me see your hands,’ Imelda says.

Coco holds out her hands, palms out, fingers outstretched.

‘I’ll behave,’ she tells Imelda sincerely, ‘promise,’ and there’s no crossed fingers in sight.

‘Give Mama a kiss.’

Coco smiles. She leans forward, pressing a kiss to Imelda’s powdered cheek.

‘Mamí loves you,’ she tells Coco.

Coco laughs, and presses their noses together for a moment.

‘I know,’ she says.

You’re too soft, Imelda tells herself, taking Coco’s hand and following Diego into his family home.

Imelda had been positively frightened of her mother, when she was Coco’s age. A stern behave yourself from Carmen would have reduced Imelda to frustrated tears.

Coco merely skips along, tapping her fingers along the side of Imelda’s hand. She’s neither put out, nor particularly bothered by the warning.

Too soft, Imelda thinks, taking Coco’s smart jacket, and hanging it up for her. She straightens Coco’s dress and strokes a hand over her head.

Coco tilts her head up, and Imelda gives her a kiss on the forehead.

But Imelda can’t bring herself to be anything else.

————

In a way, Imelda is glad for Luis.

She quickly looses Diego in the hub and bustle of his family. She smiles, and shakes hands with the women, nodding and thanking; she compliments, and by the time she makes her way outside, a glass of wine in hand, she’s pleased to take a seat by Luis’ side.

‘Do you mind?’ she says.

Luis looks up from his plate.

‘No,’ he says, ‘of course not, please sit.’

It’s easy enough to talk politely with him - he, like her, seems to be on best behaviour - and they pass idle gossip about the shoe shop, he asks after Coco and she asks about business.

It’s easy enough.

Imelda swallows and bites her tongue. She puts a light smile on her face, and when Diego catches her eye, she nods.

‘Are you okay?’ he says, leaning down, his hand on the back of her chair.

‘Of course,’ she says.

He pats Luis affectionately on the back.

‘I have to see my mother,’ Diego says, filling up Imelda and Luis’ glasses. ‘I’ll be back.’

‘You’ve met his mother?’ Luis mutters, and Imelda nods.

‘Briefly. Couple of times.’

‘She’s - ‘ and Luis makes a face.

Imelda snorts into her wine glass.

‘She is,’ Imelda says, ‘but then again my mother is too, so I’m used to it.’

Luis throws his head back when he laughs.

————

Imelda sits. She rests her elbow on the table, chin resting on her palm.

Coco is playing with the other children, and her laughter eases some of the tension in Imelda’s stomach. She glances at her watch, counting down the hours until it’s socially acceptable to leave.

‘Are you okay?’ Luis says.

Imelda nods, slowly.

‘Are you sure?’

Imelda feels a vice in her throat. Like a stone, sitting on her chest.

‘I miss Héctor,’ she says eventually. Luis looks up.

‘Who’s Héctor?’ he says.

‘My husband,’ Imelda says. ‘My - real husband - my first husband. My - Héctor.’

Luis watches her closely. He fills up her glass without being asked, pushing the glass towards her.

‘I didn’t know you were married before,’ he says quietly. ‘Did he -‘

‘He died,’ Imelda says simply. ‘He died.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Hmm.’

Imelda reaches out blindly, grabbing the glass and taking a gulp of wine.

‘He was a musician,’ she says - and Imelda never talks about Héctor, doesn’t like to pick at that scab, but she’s had just enough wine to loosen her tongue, and Luis has a kind, if awkward look on his face. The look Ernesto always used to have when Héctor was being silly, and it spurs her on. ‘He wrote the most beautiful songs, and he was so kind -‘

She talks for long moments, about Héctor, all the things she doesn’t want to forget - how he strings the guitar, how he cooks, how much he loves them.

Loved them. He doesn’t love anything any more.

‘He sounds wonderful,’ Luis says.

‘He’d have liked you,’ Imelda says, against her better judgement, taking another gulp of wine, ‘he’d have liked your wit, and your singing. You have a lovely voice.’

‘That’s a very kind thing to say.’

‘No,’ she says ‘not really. It’s just sad. A dead man would have liked you. God.’

————

Later, Imelda shakes hands and kisses cheeks goodbye. She takes Coco’s hand, as Coco swings on her feet and leans her head into Imelda’s elbow.

‘Thank you,’ Imelda says, quietly, as she says goodbye to Luis. ‘Sorry, for making things awkward.’

Luis half laughs.

‘It’s not awkward. I - I understand grief,’ he says. ‘You take care of yourself now.’

Imelda half smiles.

————

There’s no phone call, for Héctor. So he’s not sure, exactly who’s passing resulted in Susanna’s final death.

He sits with that, for a moment. A long, quiet moment, and he resolves - if they ever reach out to him, ever seek him out, he’ll be kind.

He’ll be kind.

————

‘Imelda!’

Diego calls from outside. Imelda has been repairing Coco’s skirt - she got caught climbing a tree at school to rescue a kitten. Imelda is both proud and horrified.

‘Imelda!’

‘Yes?’ she calls back, annoyed. She pulls the thread tight, trying to match the stitching to the pleat.

‘Imelda.’

‘Yes! What?’

Diego appears through the doorway. There’s an atypical look of annoyance on his face.

‘I was calling you,’ he says.

‘I’m busy.’

‘There’s someone outside for you,’ he says. His eyebrows are raised.

‘Who?’

‘A woman.’

‘What woman?’

‘A girl,’ he says ‘I don’t know.’

Imelda tuts in annoyance. She sets the sewing down, carefully extracting herself from corner of the sofa, balanced between the sewing kit and the pile of clothing.

‘Fine,’ she sighs, passing Diego in the hall and heading out the open door.

The entryway to the house is pretty, Imelda’s always thought so, with tall hedges. She opens the gateway and -

‘Ah!’ she cries, ‘Lupe!’

Guadalupe is leaning against the gate. A young girl - sixteen or seventeen - from a large family. Her dress is old, stained, but her hair is neat and tidy, braided down her back. She has her hands crossed behind her back.

‘Señora,’ she says.

She gives Imelda a small smile, and Imelda can’t help. She wraps Guadalupe in her arms, and gives her a squeeze.

Guadalupe gives her a small smile.

‘Your brothers told me you were here,’ She says quietly, she’s always had a soft, whispering voice. ‘I went to the other address you told me. I wasn’t sure if -‘

‘Yes!’ Imelda says. She’s aware of Diego leaning in the doorway behind her. She’s not sure if he can hear. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Absolutely. Let me -‘

She gestures with her hand, to stay, and Guadalupe nods.

Imelda turns heel, past Diego and runs up the stairs to the bedroom. She digs around down the back of the chest of drawers - she’s had money stashed for months now, though there’s really no need to hide it. Diego hasn’t stepped foot in the master bedroom since the day the married.

(Imelda has implemented every single test she knows of - using her many years of being an older sister, a child. She’s put hair and thread over the handle of the doorway, left undisturbed for the whole day. She’s left powder on the threshold, she’s set up ink by her stash of money, all left undisturbed, all left exactly as she set them.

Imelda had accepted, after Coco had nearly stained her best church dress with the ink Imelda had been hiding, that Diego is trustworthy enough.)

Imelda opens the envelope, thumbing through it quickly. She counts out the agreed amount, and then turns tail, running down the stairs.

She hides the money in her skirts as she passes Diego.

‘Thank you,’ she says, ‘Thank you, thank you.’

Imelda passes over the money, and Guadalupe counts it carefully, before nodding again, tucking the money into her skirts.

‘Is - is everything okay? With -’ Imelda asks quietly.

‘Yes Señora,’ she says, ‘Everything this is okay. I promise. Me and my brothers have made sure of that.’

————

‘Who was that?’ Diego asks. He’s leaning against the doorway.

‘No one,’ she says, ‘someone from - an acquaintance from Santa Cecelia. That’s all.’

Diego doesn’t believe her, that’s clear, but he lets it go. He narrows his eyes, and Imelda only smiles.

‘Trust me,’ she says. ‘She’s no one.’

Imelda crosses her fingers, hidden in her skirts as she speaks.

It’s none of Diego’s business anyway.

————

‘Héctor,’ Tía Chelo calls, ‘Héctor.’

‘Yeah?’

Héctor turns. He’s been hanging around the afternoon, playing for Chicharrón, kicking a ball about with the kids - should he get a job? - and he’s wrapping up to go.

‘Daniel is still here,’ Tío Chelo says, reaching out a kind hand to him.

Héctor nearly displaces his skull with the speed he turns.

‘What?’

‘Daniel,’ Tío Chelo says again, ‘he has - a friend, somewhere who remembers him fondly. He’s still here.’

Héctor feels sick.

The children had been disappearing for a few days before Susanna - Tía Chelo and Alejandra had handled their loss as well, something Héctor is equal parts grateful and guilty for. He’d thought they’d all gone, the baby with Susanna but -

‘What?’ he chokes.

————

‘Hello?’ Héctor calls gently, poking his head around the doorframe.

Daniel is curled up in Susanna’s normal spot, his knees tucked to his chest, face hidden. He’s nine years old and Héctor had never known him in life - he’d died the same year Héctor had been born.

‘Mamá’s gone,’ Daniel says, peering up.

‘She is,’ Héctor says. ‘She is, I’m so sorry.’

Daniel’s clothes are faded, but Héctor’s pleased to see he’s dressed in the trousers and shoes Héctor had brought. Susanna had been oddly reticent to dress the children more modernly - and Héctor could never understand if it was fear of change or distaste for charity.

Daniel nods.

‘Do you - do you remember me? Do you remember what Mamá told you?’

Daniel nods again.

‘You’re my brother,’ he says.

‘I am,’ Héctor says. ‘And I’m going to look after you, I promise.’

Daniel examines him then, sceptically.

‘C’mon,’ Héctor says, as conspiratorially as he can, ‘shall we get out of here?’

He’s rewarded with a small smile.

————
to be continued…
————