“It was stupid and dangerous and crazy,” Mari said. “He could’ve killed himself. But it’s not your fault. It was his choice.”
Lourdes ditched her chair and knelt before me. She squeezed my hands. “Our father is really sick, baby. Some days he seems fine, other days he doesn’t, but either way, he’s still sick. We’re at the point now where every day could be like today. He’s deteriorating.”
A whisper was all I could manage. “I know.”
“But you did good,” she said. “You gave him back something he lost. He’s really proud of you, Juju. We all are.”
Lourdes took the chair next to mine. Mari was still on the other side—a Hernandez sandwich. I felt warm and safe in a way I hadn’t with my sisters in a long time, and nothing would be easier than to stay here. To let them figure it all out, tell me what to do. To follow their rules.
But I couldn’t. Not anymore.
“I’m not getting the genetic test,” I said.
Mari squeezed me closer. “We’ll be there together. No matter what happens.”
“It’s okay to be scared,” Lourdes said.
I pulled away from Mari. “I’ve thought about it for weeks. It’s not because I’m scared. It’s because I don’t want to know.”
“Juju, we need to be prepared,” Mari said. “Once we know, we can plan for the future. Or something . . .” She trailed off, ran a hand through her bed-head hair. “Shit. I don’t want to know either, tell you the truth.”
“I want to know,” Celi finally said. She still wasn’t looking at me, but talking was better than silence. “I’m not good without a plan.”
Lourdes nodded. “I’m doing the test too. Juju, why don’t we talk about this later. We’ll—”
“There’s more.” I took a deep breath. I had their attention. No sense holding back anything else. “I’m deferring enrollment for a semester at DU. Just one, so I can help figure things out with Papi this fall.”
Mari shook her head, my shoulder suddenly crushed in a vise grip. “You can’t—”
“Which one of you is Juju?” A pink-scrubbed nurse approached the plastic chairs, and I looked up into her round face. “Your father is asking for you, honey. He’s stable—seems to be aware of the situation and how he got here, so that’s a good sign.”
My sisters simultaneously rose, flowers sprouting from concrete. Big, annoying flowers.
“Me first,” Mari said.
“I’ll go,” Lourdes said. “You guys stay here and wait for Mom.”
“You and Mari should stay with Juju,” Celi said.
Mari shook her head. “I’ll handle it. Juju, stay with Lourdes and Celi, and—”
“I’m not staying here,” Celi said. “I want to see Papi.”
“I’m Juju,” I told the nurse. I stood from my chair and held up my hand for them to stop talking, and for the first time in our collective history, the Holy Trinity obeyed.
The nurse left me alone in Papi’s room, and the sight stole my breath. He was sprawled in the bed looking limp and small, one arm in a sling, hand taped up. With the other, he tugged at the hospital gown that hung from his wiry frame.
“Jujube,” Papi said with a great huff, “I don’t think green is my color, queridita.”
“Shh, shh, none of that.” Papi kissed my forehead, then leaned back in his bed, motioning for me to take the chair next to him. “ ‘Hey, Jude, don’t make it bad . . .’ ”
Papi’s accent made me smile, and I let him sing the first few verses. Unlike Emilio’s friends, he actually knew the lyrics.
“What’s so funny? I’m an excellent singer,” he said.
“I know. People always sing that song to me, but you’re the only one who gets it right.”
“Of course, querida. How do you think you got your name?”
I shrugged. “The medallion. Saint Jude.”
“Ay, Dios mío. It’s from the Beatles, when we first learned English here.”
I pulled my chair closer and rested my hand on Papi’s good arm. “I thought you learned in a class?”
“Yes,” he said, “and the instructor told us to find music to help us practice. Mom and I could never agree on the same thing, and we’d end up in a big fight, always in Spanish, so that didn’t help.” Papi took a sip of water from a plastic cup on his bed table.
“One night Mom was flipping channels, and she found this Beatles concert, so we watched. It was a few hours long, and at the end she said, ‘Looks like we finally found something to agree on.’ Next day I bought all the Beatles cassettes I could find. We listened every night at dinner, wrote down all the words, practiced for our class. By the time your sisters were born, we knew English as well as anyone. Which was good, because with all the babies, we hardly had time for dinner together anymore, forget about talking and music.”
I knew they’d emigrated here before my sisters were born, knew they’d had to learn English and set down roots. I also knew that things hadn’t always been perfect between them, but they loved each other more than anything. It was there in the way Mom put her hand on his shoulder when she leaned over to scoop ensalada rusa onto his plate. It was there when Papi looked at her; even through the demon haze, his eyes still lit up the moment she came home from work. They’d built their forever together, raised four kids, woven an entire life of memories and laughter and tears.
And now there was this thing, this awful illness that would finally come between them, taking Papi away from her one memory at a time.
“Don’t cry, mi querida. I didn’t get to the good part,” he said. “Fast-forward many years, Mom learned she was pregnant with you. She came to my work to tell me. I thought she was playing a joke. She said, ‘I told the doctor the same thing. God must be playing a practical joke.’ ”
“Is this supposed to make me feel better?”
Papi patted my hand. “We were surprised, that’s all. We thought we were done having babies. But we were happy, Juju. We went out dancing that night to celebrate, only Mom was too tired to dance, so we ate a lot of food instead.
“You turned out to be a restless baby,” he said. “Mom couldn’t sleep because you were always rolling around like you couldn’t wait to get out. One night I sang to you to see if it would calm you down. The problem was, whenever I stopped, you’d kick and squirm. So I thought of the longest song I ever knew, ‘Hey Jude,’ and I sang it, night after night. After a while, it became our song—yours and mine. By then it was my favorite. I told Mom it was like you’d already picked your name and I couldn’t imagine calling you anything else, and if she didn’t like it, we’d be fighting in Spanish again.”
Papi closed his eyes, and I thought he might be drifting off, but instead he started humming the song again. Our song. It wasn’t a hand-me-down or a last-minute grasp at something because they’d run out of ideas. It was mine and his, just like Valentina.
“It’s my fault,” I finally said, because I already missed him, already missed the Western Channel and his flannels and the motorcycle, all his Argentina stories. “The fire and this . . . and now they’re sending you away. . . .”
“No, no, queridita. Is that what you think? No.” He shook his head. “They’re not sending me away. Mom and I . . . we talked about this a long time ago. When we first got the diagnosis. Together, we made the decision. We found the best place. Everything else was just formalities.”
“Formalities? But I saw the brochure, and Mom said—”
“She didn’t want me to sign the papers at first; she was scared. Maybe thinking the doctors were wrong. But I knew that when things got bad, you and your sisters and your mother . . . you wouldn’t be able to take care of me. I didn’t want anyone feeling bad about that. It’s just the facts.”
“That’s crazy,” I said. “We’re fine.”
“Mom didn’t want to tell you. She wanted us to spend time together this summer. Just you and me.” He looked down at his bandages and laughed. “I’m not sure this is what she had in mind.”
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Tears blurred my eyes and Papi smiled, his own eyes watery but clear. “You’re really something, you know that? Of all my girls, you were always the one with the most spirit. I know sometimes you felt a little lost being the youngest, and with your sisters so much older. . . . I wish I could’ve spent more time with you, Jujube.”
I wished it too, but I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t; my throat was too tight and scratchy.
He put his hand on his heart. “We sure gave El Demonio a run for the money this summer, eh? You and me. Emilio too.”
I snapped my head up at the mention of his name.
“You’re lucky to have him in your life, querida.”
“He’s not in my life anymore. He’s probably halfway to the Grand Canyon.”
“Nonsense.” Papi waved away my doubts. “Call him. You have to try. Trust me. I know things.”
I brushed away more tears. “What things, viejito?”
“I know you feel guilty about your sister and Johnny,” Papi said. “I know you want to find your own adventures, not always do what your sisters say. They all made their choices. Now it’s your turn. You like Emilio, he likes you, he invited you on the trip. Call him.”
Figures Emilio told Papi about inviting me. He probably asked for his blessing. “It’s not that simple. Emilio doesn’t—”
“Look, Juju.” Papi jabbed his finger into the table. “There are two kinds of people in this world. Those who let other people tell them what to do, and those who don’t let other people tell them what to do. Call him.”
“You’re telling me what to do.”
“That’s different. I’m telling you what’s already in your heart. Soy tu padre todavía.”
I slumped in the chair.
“I really hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but you leave me no choice.” Papi coughed and made an exaggerated frown. He looked like a big sad clown. One with a cold, because he kept on with that fake cough. “Don’t deny the last wish of a dying man.”
“Nice try. Riding the Harley was your last wish. Poof!” I made a starburst with my fingers.
“What? That was a warm-up wish.”
“So you want to waste your real last wish on me calling Emilio?”
“No. My real wish is that you get some clothes that fit.” He scanned my outfit and shook his head. “Why do you wear that shirt with all the holes, querida? You look like a—”
“I’m not the one in a mint-green dress, viejito. What would your motorcycle buddies say about that?” I tugged on his sleeve. “Tell me your wish. For real. And you can’t say empanadas, either. You know Mari’s putting you on a cardboard diet now.”
“We’ll see about that.” Papi grabbed my hands with his unbandaged one and pressed them to his chest. Beneath the scratchy hospital gown, his heart thudded against my fingers, steady, calm, strong. “Okay. No more jokes, mi querida. I need you to do something for me. My wish.”
I looked at him and smiled. He’d won, cheated his way to the top. As usual.
“Sí, Papi. Anything.”
Eventually Papi dozed off. When he opened his eyes again, they were bleary and unsettled, and he looked around the room as if he were trying to get his bearings.
“I should . . . go now,” he said. “My family is looking for me.”
“They know you’re here,” I said gently. The nurse had warned me this might happen. The stress of the day, the sedatives. His memories.
“Good, good. I don’t want them to worry.” Behind him, the heart monitor beeped a steady rhythm, bright green peaks and valleys blurring into a hazy zigzag. “Do you have any kids?”
“No kids yet,” I whispered.
A smile settled into the folds of his face. “We have three girls and another on the way. My wife is in labor right now.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “Get some rest, okay?”
He nodded, eyes vacant and polite. The monitor continued its slow beeping, and I sat in the chair beside his bed until his heart slowed, until he drifted back to sleep.
He looked young and untroubled and whole again, but it was temporary. There was no cure; the force of his illness had come upon him like the Animas in spring, swelling and washing away all that the previous seasons had so carefully deposited.
They say you can never step into the same river twice. And maybe that’s how it was for Papi now, memories shifting and re-forming soundlessly beneath him while the rest of us sat on the shore and watched. He was getting worse each day, taking longer to bounce back. No one could tell us exactly when, but I knew it now—the old inevitable I’d been outrunning since his diagnosis had finally arrived. And soon—maybe tomorrow, maybe next month—he’d open his eyes and look at me and no amount of stories or videos or songs would remind him that I was his daughter.
That we’d shared this summer together, rebuilding his old Harley.
That he loved me.
My father would be gone.
But Emilio and I had given him that last ride. And for one moment he was alive, more than I’d ever seen him. Not in the past, but right now. For that, despite the fact that I was losing him by degrees, I smiled.
“Te quiero, Papi,” I whispered.
“You too, Jude.” His voice was groggy and thick with medication, but he’d said my name, I was sure of it, and I grabbed on to those words and tucked them inside my heart.
Screw you, Alzheimer’s.
I stopped at the entryway to the waiting room and leaned against the wall, my heart strangely light, full of peace. Mom had arrived, and she sat with her back against the hard plastic chair, Celi’s hand kneading her left shoulder. In the chair at Mom’s right, Lourdes sat up straight, absently stroking Mom’s hair. Mari was across from them, and when she caught my eye, I thought she might wave me over, ask for the update.
But she only tilted her head, some silent understanding passing between us. Her gaze slid sideways, and I followed it to the boy sitting next to her, chewing on his thumbnail.
Emilio Vargas looked out across the waiting room and met my eyes.
I dropped my gaze to the floor and smiled. Tentative. Shaking. And then I looked up again, preparing for the worst, hoping for a chance.
Those dimples were a dead giveaway.
Chapter 33
True confessions. I’ve been wrong about at least six things in my life (not naming names, just saying it happens sometimes). But there’s one thing I know with absolute certainty.
Right now, it’s way too early to be awake.
I won’t open my eyes—don’t need to. The chill crawls across my skin, bringing with it the dewy cold that speaks of before-dawn, and when a warm kiss lands on my lips, I don’t care if it’s a dream.
“Almost morning,” a gentle voice says. He slowly unzips my sleeping bag, rubs my stomach. “Coffee’s hot. Birds talkin’ like mad.”
“Mmm-hmm. About what?” I ask through my sleep-heavy haze.
“You. They couldn’t sleep with all your snoring.”
I open my eyes and sit up fast, our noses almost touching. “Let’s get one thing straight, Vargas. I do not snore.”
“Bueno, mi osita.”
“Call me a bear again and I’ll soak your boxers in raw meat. Then you’ll see a real bear.”
He flashes his dimples. I’m toast.
Eventually the need for coffee and food wins out over the need for kissing, but only by the narrowest margin, and I crawl out of the tent, shivering in the twilight blue haze. Emilio drapes his fleece over my shoulders and hands me a steaming mug of coffee. Behind him, the fire pops, and here’s what I’m thinking:
Wow. For all its ridiculous imperfections, life is pretty damn perfect sometimes.
The first pink sliver of light cracks the deep blue sky, and Emilio smiles. “Take that coffee to go.”
I pick up my mug and follow him ten short yards to the rocky rim. We find a good spot to sit, let our legs dangle over the edge.
Fifteen miles across this great gash in the earth, to
urists are setting up their cameras, anxious to capture every moment through the lens. But on this side, tucked away from the popular spots, Emilio and I are alone, and neither of us brought a camera.
I drain the last of my Dark Moon blend and slip my fingers into Emilio’s hand. The last of the morning chill evaporates. No words pass between us after that, just the feeling of his hand in mine, his lips soft on my cheek. The horizon splinters into pink and yellow rifts, then all at once the light stretches its golden fingers through clouds, streaking the sky and illuminating the red rock floor below.
The sun rises over the Grand Canyon, igniting rocks that have been there for two billion years before we were born and will likely remain two billion years after we’re gone. My heart aches with the cruel and unimaginable beauty of it. We’re nothing. We’re everything.
I am dust.
Emilio coaxes the embers in our fire pit back to life. “Ready when you are, princesa.”
I nod once. He gives me the space I need.
The fire is perfect in the chilly morning air, and I sit on a boulder before it. I slip the heavy black book from my pack and slide it onto my lap, remembering everything my sisters told me. . . .
“I can’t believe you found this again.” Celi thumbed through the black book. We’d gathered in her room after midnight, like last time. Emilio would be there in the morning to pick me up, to ferry us onto the open road.
I promised Papi I would go. It was the first in his ongoing series of last wishes—viejito loco.
Once I officially accepted the invitation, my sisters and Mom agreed—probably part of Papi’s unending “last wishes” preconditions—to hold off on further discussion about Papi’s future until I returned. He was released from the hospital the day after the accident, and Mari and Celi were staying in Blackfeather for the rest of the summer. Lourdes would return in the fall. We didn’t have forever, but we didn’t have to figure it all out in a day, either.
“It’s a book of ill repute.” I leaned over Celi’s shoulder and scanned a page Lourdes had written about sneaking down to the river with some guy.