Thank you to FireChildSlytherin5, Donteatacowman, AngstDraggy, Angelwings2002, Alysia Of The Pen, Cara Beatrice Green, superlc529, TomatoSoupful, Banana2266 and alex for reviewing last chapter!
Sorry again for the wait, but I hope this chapter makes up for it! :)
I'll admit that I was hesitant to post this chapter because I'm not a medical expert, especially when it comes to appointments in Mexico, or what it was like going to the doctor when Héctor was first alive. I tried doing some research but couldn't really find anything, but I want to say thanks to superlc529 for sharing your opinion, lol. I'm sorry if things are inaccurate in this chapter and if they are, feel free to let me know and I'll definitely fix it! *buries head under pillow*
xxxx
Worry is replaced with betrayal.
Why, Papa Héctor? Miguel questions to himself. Why did you do it?
They'd tried so hard to keep his identity a secret from their family, and for good reason—he was supposed to be dead. The dead can't come back to life, yet here he was. If anyone outside their family manages to find out, then Héctor could be in trouble. They'd start asking questions...or worse.
But deep down, Miguel knows why his grandfather had cracked, giving the photo back to his Papá. They'd both seen his abuelita break down over the photo in the ofrenda room, and Héctor just wanted to make her happy again.
Miguel realizes now that taking the photo down may have been the wrong thing to do, especially in Héctor's perspective.
While his grandfather had done the right thing, it wasn't going to be so easy...especially now that his Papá Enrique is waiting for an explanation about the photo that Héctor had given back to him. 'Gael' is back in bed and unconscious, but Enrique hasn't put the photo back on the ofrenda. Miguel sits in his usual spot next to the bed, and Enrique across from him in another, new seat that he'd brought in.
He clutches the photo, staring intently at the man that it contains, and then back to Héctor resting in bed. It's probably not a good idea to be so close to him while he's sick, but Miguel has the idea that he can just use it as another excuse to stay home from school if he catches Héctor's cold. He most likely has a lot of homework to catch up on by now, but staying home with his great-great grandfather is worth it; Héctor needs him, not a doctor! They can take care of him on their own!
He has to voice his mind to his father, unable to look him in the eye.
"He doesn't need a doctor, right?" Miguel asks tentatively. "He just has a cough and a fever. It's just a normal cold."
"Yes, mijo, he does," Enrique says quietly in a whisper so 'Gael' doesn't wake. "It's not normal for someone as young as him to have a fever and fall to the floor like that."
They were going to call a doctor in the morning. Enrique had reasoned that it might not be a good idea to move 'Gael' too much, deciding to wait for the doctor to arrive to their home instead of taking him to the hospital, which was a bit far from where they live, anyway. A house call doctor that lives nearby is a better option, but Miguel still doesn't like the idea even idea even though Héctor won't be going to the hospital.
A cool cloth placed over his forehead by Luisa had helped to bring down the burning fever, but not by much; his temperature is still a bit higher than what the average was supposed to be.
Héctor shivers in his sleep on the bed, his body shaking uncontrollably. Miguel wishes they can do more but until Enrique calls the doctor in the morning, there isn't much else they can do to help except make sure that his fever stays reasonably low.
His identity is still a secret. Miguel figures that he can come up with another lie, but he can't think of anything that will distract his father from the photo and stop him from connecting the dots.
The silence is suffocating, but Miguel can't bring himself to speak until Enrique takes initiative.
"How do you really know this man?" He questions quietly, yet his voice is just the slightest bit stern.
Miguel has to stop his lower lip from trembling, even though he's sure his father can't see it very well in the dark.
"You wouldn't believe me..." is all he can say in response. Día de los Muertos was a time to celebrate their loved ones' lives. It was widely believed that they returned on the special night to celebrate with them, but Miguel had only thought it was one of those made-up things that parents tell their kids, just as he had thought the same about vitamins. No matter how strong their beliefs were, no one could possibly, truly believe that their loved ones actually came back to the Land of the Living for a night...could they?
If he told his father, he might as well just call him loco as Rosa had done when she'd first discovered who Héctor really was in the cemetery by Miguel saying his real name.
But this wasn't about him. If his family calls him crazy, then so be it. He has to at least try and find a way to help Héctor recover so his time as a living person won't be so awful. Based on what his father had said about his condition, it sounded like just a common cold, only a bit worse since Héctor was still getting used to being alive. It was his first time being sick since coming back to life, and his body was probably just getting used to it all.
Enrique lets out a quiet sigh, disappointed at his son's answer. "Mijo, you can tell me anything. You know that, right? Whatever it is, I'll listen. Just...please. No more secrets."
Secrets. Unlike his love for music that he'd managed to keep under wraps for so long, this particular secret hadn't lasted very long at all. What was he expecting? To have his great-great grandfather walking around all year without anyone noticing? Hiding the photo may have prevented them from recognizing Héctor, but even that wouldn't have lasted long. Someone was bound to have recognized him sooner or later, even without the photo.
Miguel's heart breaks at the way his father's voice sounds, like Enrique is just as tired as Héctor. He's tired of his son keeping secrets, and Miguel is just as tired as him of keeping them. He hadn't told his family anything about the Land of the Dead since returning, for fear of what they might think.
But maybe it was time...for Héctor's sake.
How could he have possibly thought this secret was going to last an entire year?
"Has he hurt you, and threatened you not to tell?" Enrique voices his worst fear. For all he knows, the man could have harmed his son in some way, and was forcing Miguel to keep quiet. But Miguel's eyes widen and he instantly shakes his head, much to Enrique's relief. Miguel would never lie to him about something like that...
"No," Miguel confirms aloud without faltering to show his father that he's not lying.
He braces himself, squeezing his eyes shut tightly; he can't bear to see the look on his Papá's face if he assumes that he's lying, or the unavoidable disbelief that would come along with it. Maybe afterwards, it would be okay. Maybe everything would just fall into place, and his family would even allow Héctor to stay with them for sure.
For now, it's just his Papá. The rest of the family can wait until they find a proper way of telling them the truth, or until Héctor is better and he can tell them himself. Miguel has to wonder if his grandfather thought it through very well—whether or not he should return the photo...but there was no going back now.
The words come forward.
"...He's my great-great grandfather..." Miguel whispers quietly and slowly so it can sink in for Enrique. When his father doesn't respond right away, Miguel gathers enough courage to peek open one eye. Enrique isn't staring at him, but down at the photo he still holds. His eyes seem normal, not widening. The silence continues, and Miguel's heart pounds just the slightest bit harder.
"He's Mamá Coco's Papá," Miguel says to try and bring forth at least some kind of response. But Enrique only stares blankly ahead at him, his eyes piercing through to his very soul.
"I almost turned into a skeleton and died last year."
This gets Enrique's full attention at last, and he stares more intently back at his son. He doesn't speak, waiting for Miguel to continue.
"After I ran away, I tried stealing de la Cruz's guitar, but...stealing on Día de los Muertos is bad. It's always bad to steal, I mean, but on the holiday you can get cursed if you steal. You get sent to the Land of the Dead where the skeletons...live, and that's where I met Papa Héctor."
He takes a deep breath after mentioning Gael's real name.
It was official. There really was no going back, now...he couldn't stop. The weight on his chest lifts little by little with each word he speaks, the truth about the previous year spilling forward and the only heaviness being the silence that Enrique still carries—there truly would be no relief at all until his father says something, anything in response to his story, but until then he has to keep going.
"I didn't know he was my great-great grandfather at first, and neither did he. Mamá Imelda wouldn't even speak his name, so I had no clue she was talking about him whenever I tried bringing him up."
Miguel stops, but Enrique continues to remain silent. Miguel chooses to believe that he's either in shock or denial that his son had actually traveled to the Land of the Dead, and had met their deceased family members including Mamá Imelda, who sits at the top of the ofrenda. Either that or he was waiting for him to finish; he hopes it's the latter.
"I needed a blessing from one of them to send me back here, but I refused to listen because they all hated music, especially Mamá Imelda. I needed a musician's blessing if I was ever going to return, so I had to get to de la Cruz because I thought he was my great-great grandfather, at first."
Miguel shudders. Now that he looks back, how could he have ever thought the two of them were related? Just because he'd seen the guitar in the photo? He realizes that when he'd first met Ernesto, the man had been confused about having a great-great grandson, though he'd just gone along with it and acted like Miguel truly was. How far would he have continued to go, especially if he had found out they weren't truly related at all once he tried sending him home?
Miguel doesn't want to think about it. He doesn't even want to tell his Papá about how de la Cruz had thrown him into the sinkhole, or just how close he had actually come to turning into a full skeleton. He suddenly feels guilty somehow that while he had avoided his fate of dying in the Land of the Dead, Papa Héctor hadn't avoided his fate of coming back to life. It had happened too quick for him, and now he was stuck here in the Land of the Living with them until next year.
Miguel decides to avoid the parts that would only add on to his father's worry and disbelief, some things better left unsaid should he find them too unbelievable to be true at all.
"Long story short...I made it back to the Land of the Living on time because of Papa Héctor. He's not like what Abuelita said about him at all. You remember Mamá Coco's stories, right?" Miguel questions in an attempt to make his father say something, at least.
Enrique simply nods.
"Papa Héctor isn't a bad person. He may have left his family, but he tried to come home. De la Cruz didn't just steal his songs..."
Miguel stops, wondering if he should finish. It had been easy enough to prove that de la Cruz had stolen Héctor's songs through the letters, but another matter entirely to prove that he had committed murder, the only proof being that Héctor's letters had suddenly stopped.
He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his unsteady heart.
"De la Cruz murdered Papa Héctor for trying to go home. He murdered Héctor for his songs, and I know this because I was sent to the Land of the Dead. Then on this Día de los Muertos, de la Cruz stopped him from crossing the bridge back into the Land of the Dead, forcing him to stay in the Land of the Living. It was the opposite of what happened to me—instead of dying, he came back to life and now he's here with us. With his family."
Enrique shifts in his seat as if he's readying himself to reply at last, but is interrupted when Héctor groans. He can only watch in confusion as Miguel takes it upon himself to try and comfort his so-called great-great grandfather.
"Papa Héctor, it's okay," Miguel reassures him just as Héctor had done for him since finding out about Dante's fate. They seem to be reassuring each other a lot recently, but Miguel wouldn't have it any other way: they need each other, especially after all they'd gone through last year and now this year, as well.
"Hurts...so...much," Héctor groans again in his sleep, his brow furrowing in obvious pain. Enrique can only watch as his son soothes his apparent great-great grandfather, reassuring him that he's not 'dying again' from any poison. Based on what Miguel had told him about de la Cruz and Héctor coming back to life, the man was reliving his death through his fever.
"It's okay," Miguel repeats calmly, placing a hand on Héctor's. His grandfather flinches at the touch, but his body seems to relax if only a little. "It's not real," he tries to reassure.
But Héctor's shakes only seem to worsen, and his poor grandfather lets go of Miguel's hand to grip the bed sheets, then lifts them to grip his stomach.
"Need...to go back...please...let me...go," Héctor begins to beg.
Miguel's heart sinks at Héctor's words. Even in his fevered sleep, he must be dreaming of when Ernesto and his group of fans had stopped him from crossing the bridge.
"Don't...help..." Héctor pleads, and Enrique blinks in shock. Miguel shakes his head, though Héctor can't see him through closed eyes.
"I know it's hard, Papa Héctor," Miguel says gently. "But you can wait a year. We can wait a year...together."
Enrique isn't sure what he's hearing. The man doesn't want help...to get better? He wants to get worse, and then...? Enrique can't bring himself to finish the horrible thought. Whether 'Héctor' wants their help or not, he was going to get help. Enrique would not simply stand by and wait for his end to come. His conscience wouldn't allow it.
"You're okay, Papa Héctor," Miguel reassures again. "You didn't drink any poison. It was just water."
At last, Héctor's body seems to ease. His shakes lessen, and his hands lower from his stomach to rest wearily at his sides. Miguel glances at his father to see Enrique still attempting to process what he'd just heard and seen, but Miguel can tell just from his expression that he has no idea what to think—except that either his son is crazy, Héctor is crazy or they're both crazy, and maybe even he's crazy for trying to listen.
"He's not loco, Papá," Miguel says calmly as he can. "He wants to go back to the Land of the Dead, but he can't until next year. We have to let him stay!"
Still nothing from Enrique except gripping the photo in his hands a little tighter, but not so tight that he would risk ruining it.
"Papá, please," Miguel begs for a response. Any kind of response would do. "We can't let a doctor see him, because they might find out that he came back to life. He could be in trouble!"
Enrique still remains silent, and Miguel shrinks back in his seat. His father hadn't said a word all throughout his story or when he'd comforted Héctor about not being poisoned.
Miguel huffs, becoming ever more agitated by the silence. He can't take it anymore!
"The doctor can help Papa Héctor, but we can't show them the photo. Please," he says again desperately. If Enrique was as curious as he thought, then he would surely try and show the photo to the doctor to get a second opinion about why the two men were so similar to each other.
Enrique shakes his head, exasperated by everything Miguel had just told him. It was all another lie like his love for music that he had hid from them for so long. It had to be, and he wasn't happy at all when his son had promised not to lie anymore after coming home last year. Who knew what he was hiding in the attic, now?
A horrible realization crosses his mind, explaining why Miguel hadn't been as worried about the missing photo.
"You took the photo off the ofrenda. Why?"
This was exactly what Miguel had been afraid of. Not only did his family think he was crazy now, but they just weren't ready to hear the truth about Papa Héctor.
"Because I didn't want anyone finding out that he came back from the dead. Not yet," Miguel answers, his voice surprisingly firm. "I wanted to wait until you were ready..."
He can see that his father is anything but ready, and his heart nearly stops at Enrique's next accusing words, sending a stab of hurt and anxiety shooting through him.
"I said no more lying."
It wasn't supposed to be like this...Héctor was supposed to be dead, but he had come back to life. The photo was supposed to stay hidden until his family was ready to hear the truth, but Héctor had given the photo back and they were anything but ready.
"But I'm not lying. It's the truth!" Miguel defends himself quickly. Maybe if Héctor was awake to back him up, this would be a lot easier. But he isn't, and so he's on his own for now.
"I'm going to talk to your mother about this, and see what she has to say about the matter," Enrique says, his voice no less stern. Miguel gulps, finding it best to get up from his seat. Enrique doesn't stop him, allowing him to leave the room to go to bed without another word.
Somewhere deep down, Enrique understands that Miguel is telling the truth. But for now, the truth is just too impossible to understand.
He calls a doctor to come and look at 'Papa Héctor' first thing in the morning.
xxxx
Héctor wakes to the feeling of fire shooting through his veins again, a feeling that he assumes he'll have to get used to eventually until his human body heals and pulls itself together, something he wishes would happen a lot faster than it is. His mouth is dry, and he can only guess that he's dehydrated once again and in need of water. His stomach is empty, yet he automatically feels the need to bring up whatever contents are left inside.
"How are you feeling?" Miguel's voice rings quietly in his ears. He blinks wearily, glancing in the direction towards the chair where his grandson sits.
"Like I just died again," Héctor chuckles lightly, making sure to cover his mouth when he starts coughing soon after. "Am I dying again?" He asks hopefully, yet with a hint of worry. He has no reason to be, but he doesn't want anything to happen, especially not in front of Miguel.
Miguel laughs. "No, you're just sick. You have a cold," he says, to which Héctor groans once again in response. His stomach tangles itself into knots, and he has to stop himself from releasing whatever is left inside. He can't remember what the last thing he ate was, but it's sure doing a number on him like he had once thought chorizo had done. For some reason, his nose feels wet, and he sniffs.
"What happened?" He asks. He can't seem to recall anything except giving the photo back to Miguel's Papá.
"You collapsed to the floor," Miguel answers, "Tío Berto and Papá moved you back in here and Papá...he called a doctor and she's going to come soon!"
"Don't worry, Miguel. I'm sure she won't be able to find out anything about me that would be a cause for concern," Héctor tries to reason.
"But what if she does?" Miguel questions back nervously.
Héctor can't exactly respond when his stomach twists and turns uncontrollably.
"I-I need to..." he barely manages to say, keeping a hand clamped over his mouth.
Miguel instantly pulls up a bucket, and Héctor dips his head inside to avoid making a mess on the bed. His stomach lurches, and he can't stop it when its contents spill forward into a gooey mess that makes him want to do the same thing all over again. Just what exactly was the human body made of, again? He'd forgotten just how...gross it really was when it came to being sick.
"I guess your body is still getting used to being alive," Miguel suggests. Héctor nods weakly in agreement, settling back further into the bed though it isn't something he wants to do. He wants to get up and walk around; maybe it will help him feel better. But his muscles are sore again and he can barely move, his arms and legs limp as noodles. Maybe going up to the attic by himself without any help hadn't been the best idea...he's lucky he hadn't fallen and broken a bone—he's pretty sure that he can no longer will his bones to come back together after breaking apart. The human body was just so fragile, and now he's learning that the hard way...
"What if I get you sick, too?" He asks Miguel, worried for his grandson's health.
"Then I can just stay home from school longer," Miguel replies with a grin. Héctor can only shake his head. Miguel should be in school right now, but he's stuck here with him and he's not sure whether to feel upset or grateful about that. He supposes he should feel grateful. If Miguel was at school, he would be alone with his family and how awkward would that be? He decides to be grateful, especially since Miguel is doing his best to help him transition into his human body.
A year. This is only for a year, he has to tell himself to keep calm. His heartbeat manages to lessen from its rushing just a bit.
But what if stealing doesn't work? His mind echoes cruelly.
It will. It has to work, he just barely reassures himself. If stealing on the holiday won't work, he doesn't know what he'd do. It's nice to have some quality time with his living family, but he still knows he doesn't belong. This is not where he's supposed to be, and if they're not careful, others like the doctor will find out.
But he tells himself not to worry, just as he had said to Miguel. There was no possible way anyone could find out where he had really come from.
"I told Papá..."
He lifts his head up from the bucket in surprise, but stays silent while he waits for clarification.
"I told him about last year," Miguel continues. "About where I really went, how I met you...and who you really are since you showed him the photo." He can't stop the slight accusation crossing his tone. It's all his grandfather's fault because he had been dumb enough to return the photo.
He's surprised that his father is even allowing him to sit with Héctor again.
"How did it go?" Héctor asks uneasily, though he has a feeling based on the way Miguel's gaze is lowered and his eyes are beginning to shine with tears. He suddenly wishes that he hadn't given the photo back.
"He didn't believe me! I don't know what to do!" Miguel reveals in a rush, as if to try and stop himself from getting too worked up.
"Hey, chamaco, it's okay," Héctor comforts to the best of his ability. "Let's focus on one thing at a time and get this appointment over with."
"You're right," Miguel sniffs, wiping his oncoming tears away with his arm.
A knock on the guest room door sounds. Miguel jumps slightly in his seat, and Héctor's heart begins to pound a bit quicker when a light-haired woman enters.
"Hola, Señor. I'm Dr. Mendez, and I will be checking to make sure you're alright this afternoon," she says politely. She wears a white lab coat with an odd-looking necklace that has a silver, circled end hanging down off of it. A...stethoscope that was used to check the heart, if he remembers right from his last visit with the doctor in his previous life so long ago. She carries a case as well, which must hold all the equipment she needs to take care of him.
Now that Héctor thinks about it, he had never really gotten sick when he had first been alive. His check-ins with doctors had been sparse, especially during his tour with Ernesto. If he did get sick, then Ernesto would just tell him to sleep it off and, ironically, drink lots of water...which usually worked. Who knew how far medicine and the equipment to take care of patients had advanced in the ninety or so years that he'd been dead?
Héctor shrinks back the tiniest bit, glancing worriedly toward Miguel. Would he have to leave?
"Can my gre-friend stay?" He'd almost said great-great grandson and Miguel knows it, frowning slightly in his direction. "He's a great friend, I mean."
Dr. Mendez hadn't seemed to notice. "Of course," she agrees, and Héctor manages to relax a little. If Miguel was able to stay with him, this appointment wouldn't be so bad.
"How have you been feeling, recently?" Dr. Mendez asks. Héctor knows he can't respond to her the same as he had to Miguel—like I just died again.
So he does his best to be honest without giving anything away.
"Just tired..." he begins slowly. "And very sore. My stomach is queasy and it hurts, and I have a bad headache."
She takes note of the bucket sitting by the bed and nods, opening up her case. She pulls out a small machine that has wires connected to a bigger, black cuff that looks as if it can wrap around something. On instinct he sits up, and it must have been the right thing to do when she instructs him to lift out his arm.
"I'm going to take your blood pressure," she says to warn him of what's coming next. His muscles burn once again from just the smallest action of lifting, and it doesn't get any better when he finds he's correct and she wraps the black cuff around his arm.
The machine is activated. The cuff buzzes, then begins to tighten. It refuses to let up until Héctor assumes his arm is going to burst, and he has to stop himself from shrieking. But just when it seems the squeezing is at its worst, it suddenly stops and finally lessens. Héctor takes in a deep breath, trying to relax and failing miserably. No wonder Miguel had wanted to avoid having him see a doctor...all these tests about to happen, and they were sure to find out something about him they weren't supposed to.
"A little high, but nothing to be too concerned about," Dr. Mendez says calmly. "It's alright to be nervous."
She brings a small, white thermometer towards his mouth and he shrinks away the slightest bit. Dr. Mendez pauses a moment, and Héctor calms himself down enough to let her bring it closer until it's actually in his mouth, underneath his tongue.
Loud beeping, and she takes the thermometer out.
"It seems your fever is going down," she says, her expression satisfied enough.
But I still feel horrible, Héctor thinks wearily. He just wants to get better so he can get up from bed and do something...
"Listening to your heart," she lets him know as she takes the round, silver end of the stethoscope that connects to her ears to rest against his back. He's grateful that she's taking her time to tell him what she's doing before doing it.
"Deep breath in," Dr. Mendez instructs.
Héctor obeys, sucking in a deep breath of air no matter how much it makes his stomach lurch again.
"Breathe out," she finishes, nodding in approval. "Good." She moves the circled end around his back a few times, eventually reaching the front of his chest before putting it around her neck once more.
Another instrument is removed from her case, and she brings out yet another odd-shaped tool that brightens when she presses a button on it, lifting her fingers for him to focus on.
The light in his eyes nearly blinds him, but he keeps them open, anyway.
"Now for blood."
"Is that really necessary?" Miguel asks nervously. It's Héctor's turn to glare a bit at him as a warning not to ask too many questions that would raise suspicion as to why they're so hesitant seeing a doctor.
"Of course. We need to know his white cell count to make sure his body is able to fight off infections," Dr. Mendez explains.
Héctor can't really disagree when she pulls out a band, wrapping it around his arm that was just as tight as the blood pressure machine.
The sharp-ended needle she brings out next pokes into his skin, and he can't stop himself from jumping the slightest bit. If Dr. Mendez had noticed, she doesn't say anything.
The sharp pain doesn't get any better when she begins to dig the needle deeper, unable to find the right vein she needs because he had consumed little to no water. He clenches his teeth and tries his hardest not to look down, which would only make him bring up whatever was left in his stomach again.
But curiosity eventually wins over, and he's surprised when he doesn't feel the need to vomit.
Fascinated yet somewhat disturbed, Héctor watches in awe as red is sucked out of the spot where she had inserted the needle, traveling through the little tube and into the capsule.
So I do have blood now, Héctor thinks in an attempt to distract himself from fainting. He can't remember having such a reaction to blood when he had previously been alive, but it's just been so long that the sight of it now makes his stomach swirl.
"Señor Rivera tells me that you were found in the cemetery on the ground...were you with anyone?" Dr. Mendez asks. "Do you have any friends or family that we can call?"
"No...my parents passed, recently. It's why I was in the cemetery on Día de Muertos. I'm a bit of a loner," he says with a smile so she won't worry too much. Thanks to Rosa, he'd come up with an entire story about why he'd gotten kicked out of his home. But since Miguel had told Enrique the truth, it seemed that all his hard work was going to go to waste. He'd somewhat been looking forward to sharing his lie, if only to see how convincing he could really be.
"I'm sorry," Dr. Mendez says sincerely. She shuffles around her case, re-organizing what she'd taken out. "You're lucky the Riveras found you."
Héctor nods. You have no idea...
He's not sure why Miguel and Rosa had been in the cemetery that morning, but things might not have gone so well if he hadn't been found by his family.
"So this is the second time you've fainted since being found?" She asks, just to be sure. It takes a moment for Héctor to come up with an explanation, but he remembers Miguel's excuse to his parents.
"No, this was the first time. I just fell asleep by accident in the cemetery when my friend played a lullaby for me..."
Dr. Mendez gives a small smile. "I'd love to hear it one day. You play the guitar, too?" She questions, nodding towards his guitar leaning on the stand as it usually does since he'd first arrived.
Miguel just barely shakes his head, but Héctor doesn't see any harm in it.
"Si," he replies, though he still can't stop the uneasy feeling crawling across him.
"It's best that you stay in bed for awhile longer—no strenuous activities," she suggests.
Like climbing to the attic, Héctor thinks tiredly to himself. He was never going to do that again, at least not without Miguel's help. He sighs at her instruction to stay in bed—the last thing he wants to do. In bed, time crawls by so slowly...if he could get up and do something, the torture of time passing by slowly might not be as bad. But now with the doctor's orders to stay in bed, he has no choice but to listen.
She turns to face Enrique. Héctor hadn't noticed him by the doorway or how long he'd been there, but he's glad.
He knows the truth now. He knows who I am.
But that doesn't mean Enrique believes it...
It explains why Miguel's father was staring at him in such a way that makes him want to curl up in a ball and be hidden from the world. Maybe giving back the photo hadn't been the best idea, after all...
"It seems to be a normal cold for now," Dr. Mendez says. "Rest and plenty of fluids should help get him back on his feet. Once he's feeling well enough to move, I would like him to come in and take a few X-rays to be sure there's no underlying cause for his stomach cramps. But if he continues to vomit or brings up blood, call emergency right away."
"Of course," Enrique agrees, clutching the photo in one hand. Try as he might, he hadn't been able to put it back where it belonged since Miguel had told him his story.
"I do have one question...has he eaten any garlic, recently?"
Enrique blinks, confused. "Not that I'm aware of," he answers, unsure of what she was looking for.
"Is there anything else?" She asks.
Enrique stiffens, his grip around the photo tightening more than the entire time he'd been holding it during the appointment.
Héctor and Miguel brace themselves. He was going to show her the photo, and then they really would be in trouble. She would want to take him to the hospital to do more tests until they somehow found out that he was supposed to be dead.
Enrique stares at Miguel from behind the doctor. He has to show her the photo. She would know what to do, and they would find out if he really is related.
If Miguel really isn't lying. He has to be sure...he has to know.
His hand lifts just the slightest bit, ready to give Dr. Mendez the photo...maybe she can help him make better sense of things.
But the way his son stares back at him, pleading with him, is something he can't ignore. He can't ignore how his bright, brown eyes are almost an exact match to the man's, and how similar some of their mannerisms are.
Héctor also can't ignore the way Miguel's father continues to stare at them with a look of confusion. Confusion at Miguel's story, and denial that it could hardly be true. But what hurts the most is that distrust is also there in the mix. He avoids eye contact, concentrating on the bucket so he won't make a mess when he feels the need to heave again.
But despite the distrust, Enrique's hand drops back to his side, keeping the photo out of Dr. Mendez's view.
Miguel smiles at his father gratefully, but Enrique only moves to show Dr. Mendez out of the guest room. He breathes a sigh of relief that at last, the doctor is gone. She hadn't found anything...yet.
"That wasn't so bad," Héctor says more to himself than his grandson. "Except for the needle."
"But she took some of your blood," Miguel reminds him.
Héctor finds that he just wants to go back to sleep and not worry about what any doctors might find from his blood. He's grateful in a way that a doctor had checked him over. He just has a cold, and all he needs to do is rest and drink more water.
As he sinks back into the bed, he can't get Enrique's look of disbelief and distrust out of his mind.
He doesn't believe his own son's story. What could he say to make it any better or more believable?
Giving back the photo hadn't resulted in what Héctor had hoped it would.
Enrique had lost what little trust he had in Héctor since Miguel had told him the truth, and he can't exactly blame him.
xxxx
He watches warily from the doorway, keeping himself out of sight the best he can. He'd wanted to try talking to the man, but every time he tried, his feet wouldn't allow him to get any closer out of fear of what more he would discover. Miguel's story, and the way he had calmed him down by telling him it was only water he had taken and not poison...it was a little too much to comprehend, and before they knew it, 'Héctor' was sound asleep again before Enrique could muster enough courage to try and talk.
Enrique certainly hadn't thought of telling anyone else like his Mamá, lest he wants them to think him just as crazy as Miguel.
A spike of guilt shoots through him. How could he ever call his own son loco?
I almost turned into a skeleton and died last year.
Miguel's story runs through his mind over and over, and he can't get it to stop. What did Miguel mean that he had almost died, let alone get turned into a skeleton? His son had already explained, but it had fallen on deaf ears once he'd said that this man now named 'Héctor' was his great-great grandfather.
It couldn't be possible. The dead don't...can't come back to life. Miguel's explanation about how it had happened didn't make any sense, either.
"Maybe he's telling the truth," Luisa comes up behind him to rest a hand on his shoulder. Baby Socorro is sound asleep, as well as their son. "Miguel promised not to keep anymore secrets."
"But he kept this a secret from us," Enrique reminds her. "This man cannot be our Papa Héctor. It's impossible. He's...gone."
"Perhaps this man really is Papa Héctor," Luisa says calmly as she can. She's not sure what to make of Miguel's story either from what Enrique had told her, but she's willing to trust her son and what he has to say about the stranger. "We may think the stories of the dead returning on Día de los Muertos were only make-believe," Luisa reasons, "but where did Miguel really go last year? He never exactly told us the truth, and we never pushed."
Enrique realizes that she has a point. Since returning from running away, Miguel had kept quiet about just where exactly he had gone, trying to distract them with Mamá Coco's stories.
"We can't just send him out on the streets. Especially not after all we've done for him so far. Especially not if he really is family."
Enrique takes his wife's words under careful consideration, but then sighs.
"If he really is Papa Héctor, how do we send him back? This has never happened before. It's not...natural. It's not right."
"Think about it...this would explain why he's so sick. He is getting used to the process of being alive again. Maybe Miguel is right...a doctor wasn't a good idea if Héctor really did come from the Land of the Dead."
She's right. She's always right.
Miguel would never lie about something like this. Why didn't he have more trust in his own son?
Luisa heads off to bed, leaving him alone in the doorway to collect his thoughts.
He can't look away from the man laying in bed, unable to bring himself to follow his wife.
Miguel's story can't be true...it just can't! Enrique refuses to believe...
Until 'Gael' says two names that make Enrique's heart skip a beat—names that make him fully realize his son had been telling the truth. The man could have overheard them talking the night before, hearing their names. But somehow he feels that isn't the case...that this man really had come back from the dead, and maybe he really is a part of their family.
"Imelda...Coco..." Héctor whispers mournfully in his sleep.