Author Notes

A quick breather chapter! (and a welcome break from the last one... and for the next one)
Big thank you to BabyCharmander for betaing!

Chapter 12: Night Flight

All that evening Imelda thought about Héctor, and it was getting on her nerves.

In the past, both in life and death, she would simply force those thoughts away and refuse to think about him. She could no longer afford to do that and so she lay awake in bed and dwelled on her husband. Her head turned on the pillow and looked at the empty space at her side. Was he also lying awake, maybe thinking about her as well?

Perhaps she should have invited him to stay that night, rather than make him walk all the way back on his limp. He didn't belong there anymore. He was no longer being forgotten, and he had family to live with, and yet he was alone and far away in Shantytown. Shutting her eyes tight, she imagined him somewhere cold and miserable, laying on a dusty floor in a half-rotten home, surrounded by trash and ruined plans to see his family again. Had that been what his afterlife was like for so many years? Alone?

No… not alone.

She tossed under the blanket, curling in on herself. He had taken another woman to his bed—had even admitted as much. Of course, they had been just friends; he swore there had been nothing between them. But he had said the same thing about that other woman, Maris, and Imelda couldn't shake the feeling there was something more between them, despite his promise. There was so much she didn't know, and now with knowledge of this new 'other woman'…

The scene in her mind changed. She saw him slowly sit up in the gloom, facing away from her, reaching out a hand to the empty air as if desperately searching for something, beckoning…

From the darkness, a shadowy woman stepped forward and took his hand, and allowed herself to be brought to his bed, lying down beside him. As Imelda watched, Héctor pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her, and the woman curled her hands around his back, leaned her head forward and kissed him…

Imelda shot up and threw the blankets off.

There would be no good in sleeping. She fumbled with a match on her bedside table and lit a candle, shielding it as it sputtered and settled. The image of Héctor kissing another woman wouldn't leave her mind, his hands raking through her hair, resting upon her hip…

No. He had said nothing happened. They just… slept together.

There was nothing she could do about it then, she reminded herself. It was the middle of the night, surely he'd be asleep. Perhaps she should read for a little bit. Distract herself. But that was no good, either. Her eyes kept drifting off the page to stare aimlessly about her room, wondering about all she had learned. Imelda found her mind turning his words over and over, trying to make sense of it all.

Maybe things were just different in Shantytown, and it wasn't so strange to share clothing when they didn't have much, and that they wouldn't want them to get dirty. And things were different with bones, maybe nudity didn't bother them after being dead so long.

Then there seemed to be a whole story about their meeting, one she never quite got an answer for why they would have had to take their clothes off when they first met. Something had happened, and whether it was fishing or swimming, it seemed suspicious. And then he had stolen someone's rib…

He was hiding something, no question. But what? And why ?

Tomorrow when he came by, she would sit him down and demand answers, she decided, staring into the darkness. Her eyes flickered to the open book in her lap and wondered if he had already tried to tell her.

He had tried countless times to reach out to her, although only rarely did he dare try to talk to her in person, not when she would react so brutally to him.

So instead, he had relied upon letters.

It made sense, in a way. Small, unassuming bits of paper with her name upon it. In her mailbox, or slipped through a window, or laid carefully upon the mat with flowers tied with a ribbon. To him at least, it would make sense.

To her, it was especially cruel.

For so long she had waited for letters from him, days and weeks and months passing without a single word. Even after years, there was still sometimes a faint, frustrating hope that maybe he was still out there thinking of her, that one day a letter might come, and she would curse herself for relying on false hope. She knew Coco had sought him out before her wedding, although her daughter had been careful to keep it a secret from her. But Imelda knew, and she knew that no letter ever arrived, and Héctor wasn't there for his own daughter, and Imelda's heart hardened further.

And then she died, and he had found her, arriving in a clean, trim suit with nothing but his hat in his hands and hope on his lips. It was too late. Seeing him there, as dead as her and so young… she should have realized something was wrong, but she had been so angry, so hurt at all the years he had missed. Whenever she had found another letter from him, the anger would return. Sometimes they had flowers tied with a ribbon, or small gifts. A silver coin. A fresh pan dulce on her window sill. Somehow, that made it all worse. Every time she would throw the letters in the trash, sometimes crumpling them up first for good measure. It was only the last few years that he had finally stopped and respected her wishes. Or maybe he had given up on her.

That thought put a chill on her. Perhaps he had stopped loving her as well. How much pain can a heart take before it's too much? Thinking back, she might even know the breaking point.

One cold night she had even caught him in the act, standing on her doorstep (on their anniversary, she later realized). She had been awake still, already stressed and tired when she had heard his voice from outside. Without thinking she had gone and thrown open the door. He had stood there, shocked at her sudden appearance, wearing a handsome mariachi suit with a bouquet in his hands and another damn letter. Barely thinking beyond her fury, she had stormed out and shouted… terrible things. Looking back on it now, she had to close her eyes and try not to think about what she had said. Or the look on his face.

She had torn that letter. Right in front of him. Taken those flowers and thrown them to the ground.

And then she had hit him.

He hadn't tried to defend himself. It had been loud and harsh, and her hand had stung for a long time. But the pain in her hand had faded faster than the memory of his face when he had looked to her again, like she had hurt him beyond belief. And she had.

Had he forgiven her for that? Would he still remember? It seemed like it would be hard to forget. After that, he didn't show his face for years. That had been the last letter he ever gave her, and she had burned it until it was nothing but cold ash, and she moved on.

All that time, she thought she had been justified. She assumed Héctor had been trying to manipulate her into falling for him again, but had sworn she wouldn't make that mistake. She would not allow herself to keep that temptation, to let herself feel that same pain again. Therefore, she had thrown away every one.

Although… had she?

She sat up straight in her bed, looking around the room with new eyes. Perhaps there was something she could do in her restless mood. For all those years, he just wanted to speak with her. What had he tried so hard to tell her?

Just one letter, she thought, slipping out of bed and lighting a second candle. If she could find that, she could sleep in peace. She couldn't turn back time, or erase the pain of the past, but maybe she could finally listen.

An hour later—the small clock upon her bedside table read 12:26—she was sitting by her vanity, face in her hands.

Nothing.

Not a single note, not even a scrap.

Sitting there, her room upheaved, she wondered once again how much she had hurt him by refusing him.

She glanced over the pile of papers that she had found instead, collected from over fifty years. There were misplaced receipts, records of her first loan, letters from admirers and potential business partners, which sometimes amounted to the same thing.

Her eyes fell on one pale envelope and she glared at it. It had seemed like the same paper as what he usually wrote on, with Imelda Rivera in script on its face. But when she opened it, it had begun,

Estimada Señora Rivera,

I am writing to you on behalf—

And she quickly shoved it back in the envelope, feeling cheated.

Looking about the room, thinking of all the attempts he had made to show how much he loved her still, she was struck by how much she had hurt him. Why wouldn't he find someone else? Maybe not someone he had loved, but at least someone who wouldn't crush his heart under her heel every time he tried to talk to her.

And if he had, Imelda would not be surprised if he would want to keep it a secret from her. He probably didn't want to hurt her. Or perhaps he regretted it, or was ashamed at his infidelity. It may well have been a short, desperate affair. Maybe a drunken mistake one lonely night. She could understand that, longing simply to be held once again.

Of course, maybe it had been longer than one night. A lot could happen in ninety years. Maybe he had once believed he was in love and later realized he wasn't. Had this Aida, who he had lived with so long, been such a woman?

Her hand clenched at the flare of anger at the thought of him in bed with another, then slowly loosened it at the painful reminder that she would have been the one who had pushed him into it.

You never tried to find him, to speak to him. Not once .

The words moved through her mind like a memory. Her eyes lingered on the false letter, thinking of all the times he had reached out to her, again and again, words and papers instead of olive branches. Perhaps it was time she reached out as well.

She threw on a heavy robe and walked out to the balcony, breathing in the cool air. It was mostly clear out, with a bright almost-full moon and a few drifting clouds.

A good time to fly.

Climbing up the ladder to the open courtyard over their home, she gave a low whistle. Pepita answered quicker than she had expected, with a strangely human expression on her face, as if wondering what took her so long.

"We'll only be out a short while," Imelda said softly, petting her glossy, bright fur. There was still work to be done in the morning, and she wasn't a young woman anymore who could stay up all night without repercussions. But this was something she needed to do.

She climbed up, settling between Pepita's large shoulder blades, and made a soft clicking noise. It was more for her sake than her alebrije's , who often had a mind of her own when it came to this sort of thing. With a great spread of wings they took off, Pepita surprisingly quiet for her great size, and in seconds they were in the air, weaving in and out of the twisting, jumbled buildings, stacked upon each other and reaching higher than should have been possible. Then they were above it all, soaring in the open night, the stars and the moon the only thing above, and the great expanse of the world below.

"Take me to him," she said softly, eyes fixed upon the strange, low place where the almost-Forgotten lived, looking sinister from where she sat, a ghostly fog over the black waters. Pepita gave only a mild huff in reply and spread her wings in a long, graceful glide, the wind ruffling the tips of her feathers, a soft noise in the otherwise empty sky.

Imelda expected the place to be dark and somber, but as they flew over she saw that it was colorfully lit with candles and strings of lights. Then she caught the sound of music and laughter, even so late at night. Perhaps they didn't mind staying up, knowing how precious time was. Who knew what day, what hour, might be their last?

Pepita swung her head left and right, sniffing and looking about. Once or twice someone would glance up at them, and Imelda wondered if they were anything more than a fleeting shadow high overhead. There was a change, a great beat of wings and Pepita began to lazily circle over one house, a small shack far below, decorated with golden lights.

"This? Is that his home?" she said, peering over. It didn't look like much, a squat little hut, and yet some of the tension in her heart eased. All considered, it didn't seem so bad, nestled in amongst the other houses all around, looking warm and welcoming, if meager.

"So this is where he lived," Imelda said softly, feeling she was maybe finally learning something about him. But Pepita gave a sharp toss of her head, as if shaking off a fly. Imelda frowned. "What? But if this isn't it, then where…"

But before she finished they were moving again, keeping high over the buildings. Imelda noticed how the lights grew dimmer, the houses farther apart. Then the lights disappeared all together and Pepita was flying over dark water interspersed with squat shapes of black that showed where the houses were, or perhaps had been. The place seemed empty.

"No… this can't be it," Imelda whispered.

Something had to be wrong. Had Pepita caught the wrong scent? Or was she about to turn and go back to the earlier place? Then they stopped, hovering over a little shack on the edge of the great sea, far from everywhere else. Imelda sat up, peering over her alebrije's shoulder, and felt the wind blow cold over her.

"Here? Héctor lives here ?"

There was no reply. They flew lower, almost skirting the roof. But there seemed to be nowhere to land, nowhere to go. No way for her to get down and go look into the building for herself. Perhaps it was for the best. She wasn't sure if she actually wanted to talk to Héctor, now that she was there. Not yet, anyway. This, though, was worse than she had thought.

Even the building looked lonely, small and dark against the softly-reflecting water. There didn't seem to be much else nearby, and no lights. Was he already asleep?

She sat up straight and looked at the rest of the land of the almost-Forgotten, at the strings of soft golden glows, the shacks cozied near each other. There was laughter over there. Warmth. Light.

Looking back down, she saw none of those things.

This was where he lived?

Her shoulders hunched forward, a fresh breeze making her shiver. He was living in that miserable little shack down there all that time. For all those years…

Because of her.

Did you ever once think about how much pain he has suffered because of you?

Who had told her that? Who's voice was in her head, besides her own now echoing those same terrible thoughts.

Why didn't she just listen to him?

Why didn't she trust that he had been trying to come home?

After she died, she had never really thought about what his afterlife had been like. She much preferred not to think of it. But ever since Dia de Los Muertos, after learning he had been living in Shantytown, she had wondered. Well, perhaps assumed would be the better word, after learning how desperate he was to reach out to see Coco, seeing the physical state he was in.

She had assumed he had spent his years alone and devoted to trying to cross the bridge, or trying to reconnect with her. There had been a strong mental image of him huddled in a small shack- quite similar to the one she had seen- and despondent over missing his family. Miserable.

Then she remembered what he had said about that other woman, that they had lived together. Shared a home . Thinking back, she wondered what he must have gone through to call such a sad little place home.

Pepita made a faint rumble in her chest, and Imelda looked over, afraid that Héctor might hear them. There was no sound, no sign of movement, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

"Let's go," she murmured, her eyes lingering on the dark house below as Pepita turned in a great loop. As they flew higher and higher into the sky, she felt her soul lift as well.

Miguel had been right: Héctor was part of their family. It was time she started acting like it, and bring him home.

There was a twinge at that thought. She wasn't sure she was ready to live under the same roof as him. It meant seeing him at breakfast every morning, and hearing his footsteps creak to bed every night. A different bed, of course, in the spare room that she hadn't failed to notice had been mysteriously cleaned up over the past month. The extra boxes of supplies had been put away, and Victoria's bolts of cloth, and her brothers' haphazard inventions. They apparently expected Héctor to move in, and sooner rather than later. After seeing his current residence, Imelda realized she had been the one holding back.

He could do better.

They would do better.

Whatever he might have done, whatever his regrets, they would put it behind them. If he had demons in his past, they could stay there until they were buried. He needed to know that he was a part of their family, and it was about time she remembered that.

Fortunately, she knew exactly what to do.

Author Notes:

Next chapter: bad things happen(ed). Héctor hears a cry for help.
It will be posted a week from now—it just needs a final beta read, and is one chapter I've been looking forward to for a long time. This is when things start getting fun ;)

Any feedback is always appreciated (good or bad!)
Until next week :D