There were a great many things Imelda didn't like having her peaceful day interrupted by, but the news that one of her family members is sick always topped the list. It always broke her heart to hear that another Rivera was in a state of despair, and it always made the heart she no longer had squeeze when she saw the ugliness of the moment for herself.

Imelda would perfer it if she could just have one day without anything or anyone interrupting the content feeling that's supposed to stay for the whole twenty four hours, but that morning the knock on her bedroom door, interrupting her rather animated conversation with Héctor, broke through her relaxed state in no time at all.

When Imelda opened the door Julio was there, his face twisted with more worry than Imelda thought he was capable of, even though she's seen the expression on his face plenty of times before this one. That's when she found out why he looked that way. Coco is sick, he told her, his words rushing out, and that made the ground under Imelda's feet feel like it was shifting in a threatening way.

After she thanked Julio for letting her know, she practically pushed him back into the hallway and slammed the door, trying to reel in the feeling of fear working through her as she thought of the last time she'd seen Coco sick. It was when she was the same age as Héctor, and a raging case of the flu had found its way to her. She'd been bedbound for three days, and she had severely hallucinated for two of the three, mistakening Imelda for Héctor most of the time, clutching her bedsheets in agony and practically screaming for her father.

Thinking of how serious that was, and what it could've meant if it had kept on for longer, drove Imelda to a state of inward madness. She knew they couldn't die from sickness in the Land of the Dead, but that didn't mean it was any less serious than if they could.

After she heard Julio's footsteps indicating him walking away from her bedroom door, Imelda turned from the door to look at Héctor, afraid of what she'd see on his face. For a moment neither person spoke. Imelda didn't even look at him for a few seconds, feeling the sting of his equally strong concern in his stare.

When she finally lifted her head to look at him, she wished she had never dared to. Héctor's eyes were wide, and the harsh sunlight streaming in showed fresh tears beneath his blank expression. He was wringing his hands with too much focus and intensity. He stared at her in a way that showed he was trying not to cry, but a good one second passed before he lost the battle and buried his face in his hands, cringing and turning away from her.

Imelda stared at him, his hunched shoulders, his crumpled stance, and charged forward to embrace him, pulling him into her arms and guiding him over to their bed, where she nonverbally instructs him to sit, silently looking on with one arm wrapped around him firmly as he brought one hand down and wiped his eyes with the other.

It occured to Imelda that this was the first time in 96 years that Héctor had heard of Coco being sick, and her non-existent stomach twisted as she tried to think of what to say. She averted her gaze from his face before speaking, moving her arm away from his back and squeezing his hand.

"She'll be alright, Héctor," she said finally, not knowing what else to tell him.

He didn't seem to buy it, though, and once again Imelda experienced the heaviness of his gaze, a feeling she'd forgotten long ago but now was becoming familiar with again.

He sighed and responded in a watery, quiet voice: "No, she won't."

Imelda still didn't look at him, but made her voice louder for her next words as she tightened her grip on his hand. "At least she can't die from it this time, Héctor."

"So?" Héctor replied sharply. "She's still sick, isn't she?"

Imelda just nodded, letting go of his hand and finally finding it in her to look at him again. His eyes were now narrowed and pushing out the last tears. His hands were fists in his lap where he'd rested them earlier. Imelda could tell he was thinking of the last time he'd seen Coco ill. She could practically see the memory in his eyes, laying next to Coco with his guitar on his stomach, clasping her small hand in his, Imelda trying to get him to leave his daughter's side for just one minute but failing when met with his love and defiance.

She almost missed it when suddenly Héctor shook his head and stood up, grabbing his guitar from its stand and heading for the bedroom door.

Imelda followed him and placed her hand on the doorknob as he turned it. "Where are you going?"

He stared at her in a way that made her eye twitch. "I'm going to see her."

He tried to open the door again, but Imelda only slapped his hand off of the door in a way so fierce it suprised them both. "You can't," she snapped.

Héctor gaped at her, taking his hand off the door and balling it into a fist. "Why not?" There was confusion in his face now.

Imelda hesitated briefly, thinking of a way to tell him without sounding too harsh. "Because..." she paused again, seeing his expression shift from perplexed to slightly scared. She took a breath let the words fall from her mouth without holding back any longer.

"You wouldn't know how to take care of her, Héctor. It's not like when we were alive and she was a three-year-old girl. It's been almost a century since you'd been part of this familia. Things have changed. You wouldn't be able to help her like you used to. You'd only make it worse."

It was impossible to miss the pained gasp that Héctor made when Imelda finished talking, and almost as impossible to ignore his hurt expression. He'd begun fidgeting with his hands again, and the sunlight from the window, though dimmer than a few minutes ago, still highlighted the dried tears on his cheekbones and the new tears in his eyes.

"So I'm not able to see her?" His voice was trembling.

Imelda shook her head and put her hand on his shoulder. "No," she said firmly. Not right now."

Héctor stared at her, and in that instant Imelda realized how tall he looked, especially in the sunlight, where he looked like he loomed over her and could do some damage. His eyes blazed, actual anger flashing in them. His mouth twisted into a hurt and disgusted grimace as he grabbed her hand, pushed it off, and sneered.

"Fine." His voice was hard.

He threw open the door and stormed downstairs, leaving Imelda to stare at him dumbfounded and supress the shaking of her limbs as she walked to Coco's room.

Coco was awakened by Mamá's hand on her shoulder. She shielded her eyes with her hands and stared into her mother's eyes.

"Mamá? What are you--"

Mamá didn't say anything, but the expression on her face and the way her eyes watered told Coco all she needed to know.

"Mamá, you don't need to worry about me." She was interrupted by a fit of coughs, burrying her face into her pillow waiting for her fit to subside.

She heard her mother sigh as she turned to look at her.

"Yes, I do, mija," she said.

Coco rolled her eyes and peered at her. "Where's Papá?"

Mamá's eyes drifted to the bedroom door and she shifted from foot to foot. "I told him not to see you," she explained.

Coco widened her eyes. "But I want to see him!" she protested, squeezing her hands to fists over the blankets.

"But, Coco, he wouldn't know how to help you."

"I don't care!" Coco's voice grew shrill against her sore throat. She heaved in a breath and lowered her breath. Tears pooled in her eyes "I just want to see him," she said, her voice shaking. "I don't care if he knows how to help me or not. I only want to spend time with him and make up for all the years we missed."

Mamá crossed her arms and leaned back, her face firm, but Coco only glared back through her hazy eyes, which were still watery from both sickness and wanting her father by her side.

Finally, after seeing Coco wasn't going to back down, Imelda huffed and rolled her eyes.

"You really want to see him?" she asked.

The calmness and regret in her voice sent an odd chill down Coco's spine as she nodded.

Mamá nodded back. "Fine. I'll go get him. I don't know if he'll want to, but... if you want, I'll tell him." She stood up to leave, strode over to the door, put her hand on the knob, and twisted it open, casting one more strange look Coco's way.

Then she turned to leave, closing the door behind her and leaving Coco to decipher the feeling of love forming in her chest and working through her tired, hazy state. She stared at her closed door and waited for Mamá to come back, not caring how much her head ached or her throat hurt from talking as she thought of her earliest memories with her father.