I received some lovely feedback from people, so apparently you're enjoying my writing so far. I suppose that it would be best for us to continue and see how Imelda is handling things now that she's alone with time to think about everything.
"This doesn't change anything," said Imelda, breaking the silence after a while. "It doesn't change what happened, what your decision put us through for decades. What it did to Coco. You broke your daughter's heart by choosing to chase music with that man. Nothing that happened last night can undo all those years. It still happened. This changes nothing."
Unsurprisingly, her sharp and bitter words fell on deaf ears. Héctor remained just as still and lifeless as before, glowing with a golden light that promised to steal him away at any moment. She could scarcely believe that he was actually in the middle of it. He still felt like an empty shell.
But she could pretend that he could hear her. That she could tell him exactly how much his choice hurt everyone. How much it hurt her.
Not that she let that slow her down. She couldn't take the time to cry over her broken heart when she admitted that Héctor would never come home. Not when Imelda had a daughter to feed and clothe and even the thin trickle of money with his letters dried up. Not when so many people were looking at their little family with so much pity, as if they were some broken thing. Not when anger and stubborn focus on her goals was easier to handle than grief.
She spent half a century working to build a business and protecting her family from being torn apart by music and the ambition it caused that tempted people away. Imelda spent the rest of her life without that man. She didn't need some musician who abandoned them. And she didn't need the songs that she once loved that now tore at her heart. She told herself that every morning when she woke up alone until the day she died.
And when she died and finally saw him again, a lifetime of pain and feelings of betrayal came out as a storm of fury and hatred. All those years of struggling to make enough money in the early days to keep Coco fed, of staying up all night to finish an order on time, and working until her hands shook and her fingers ached… She unleashed it all at once at the confused skeleton, verballing tearing him apart before snarling that she never wanted to see him again. If he couldn't stand with them in life, then he did not have the right to even come near her family in death. It took a few more similar encounters before Héctor seemed to realize that she wouldn't allow him to speak a word and that she would never forgive him.
She did vaguely notice even then that he looked younger than she expected. Age was a little trickier to figure out on a skeleton, but she could tell that he died long before she did. But Imelda shrugged it off. She'd already imagined various scenarios over the years of what he was probably doing after Héctor abandoned them. It didn't take much to adjust those theories. Maybe a drunken night after a performance with Ernesto went wrong. Alcohol poisoning or an accident. Or on those nights when she felt particularly upset and indulged in some self-pity, Imelda wondered if he died in the bed of some pretty young señorita that he'd charmed with his music…
But that wasn't true, was it?
Imelda found herself reaching over and taking his hand in hers. It didn't feel right though. Even though the dead were walking skeletons, there was always a warmth to them. A memory of life, in a way, that stayed with them even once their hearts stopped and the skin disappeared. But Héctor didn't feel like that right now. It felt like she was just holding onto dry old bones, empty and lifeless.
He left her. No matter what else happened, he left his family. She didn't know if she could ever forgive him for leaving them, no matter his reasons for going. Because that would mean forgiving him for a lifetime alone when they'd promised to be together forever as husband and wife.
But Miguel said that he died trying to come home. That Ernesto murdered him. And then the man admitted to the crime, trying to murder Miguel to keep that secret. Imelda was still trying to adjust to that new knowledge.
Old and familiar anger flared up. He tried to come home eventually, but how long did that take? How many years did Héctor spend touring with Ernesto until he grew bored? He must have enjoyed himself for a while since he couldn't even bother to continue with those letters after the first few months…
Realization hit her abruptly, cold shock washing over her like a wave and dousing that ancient anger. The letters stopped so suddenly. They didn't grow more infrequent or even grow shorter in length first. They simply ended.
It was only a few months after he left, not even close to the amount of time he mentioned Ernesto wanting to tour. It had hurt that he forgot them so quickly, that he stopped caring about his family after such a short period of time. That his promises meant so little.
She should have questioned it, but the pity and whispers from the people in town helped steer her thoughts to the most reasonable conclusion. They'd decided what must have happened long before Imelda gave up hope of his return. There was only one logical explanation for why a young musician far from home would stop sending word to his family. Why worry about the burden of a family when he could chase fame without them?
She didn't wonder or question it too much because it would seem like she was inventing fantasies or making excuses for a man who didn't deserve it. It would mean that she was too weak and foolish to accept the plain reality in front of her, that she'd been abandoned by a no-good musician who chose to seek out better fortunes than what he could have staying in their town with a wife and child. It was what the gossip had long since established and the seeds of doubt were too entrenched to dig up. And Imelda didn't have the time to consider the matter too much; she still had a child to raise.
But that wasn't what happened back then, was it? The letters stopped completely, like a sharp knife cutting off all communication. The letters didn't just stop without warning for no reason, did they? He didn't stop writing only to continue touring a few more years.
That's when it happened, wasn't it? Only a few months after they left, Héctor tried to come home. He tried to come home and Ernesto killed him for that.
Héctor didn't forget them. He didn't stop writing or sending money or caring about them. He didn't even want to stay for the entire tour. He tried to come home sooner. And Ernesto de la Cruz… He…
She felt something beginning to give way, startling Imelda into loosening her grip. She hadn't realized that she'd started squeezing, that her hand had tightened around his in response to her unsettled thoughts. Imelda quickly muttered soft apologies, worried for a moment that she'd managed to crack his metacarpals accidentally. Everything about him seemed so fragile and brittle even compared to his state when she fished him and Miguel out of the cenote, like he was ready to shatter apart or crumble to dust at the slightest mistake on her part. But a brief inspection of the bones assured her that she'd stopped in time to keep from actually hurting him.
She'd hurt him enough already.
Imelda rubbed her thumb across his knuckles, making certain to be gentle this time. Miguel was right. Whether she could forgive Héctor or not, he didn't deserve to be forgotten. And yet she did everything in her power to erase him from all memory. No foto on the ofrenda, forbidding anyone from mentioning his name, no talking about the man… She wanted to forget him and the way his abandonment hurt their family, to make Coco forget him so they could all heal and move on.
But it didn't help. Not really. Trying to forget and ignoring Héctor didn't stop the hurt; it only buried it for a while. It didn't seem to make Coco any happier; she stubbornly clung to his memory despite Imelda's efforts. It didn't help Miguel; it only taught him to hide, lie, and sneak around because he didn't think his family would support him. Because following her decrees blindly and without question even after Imelda's death meant that their family wouldn't support his love of music and would smother it.
Trying to forget him didn't do the family any good in the long run. And it nearly cost Héctor his very existence.
"You should have never left. You left your family," she said, but with no bite in her words. "You can't give me back all those years. You can't undo all those years without you. All those years working hard to keep a roof over our daughter's head and food on the table. All those years forcing people to take me serious even though I was a woman without a husband. All those years where I couldn't even think about singing without… without remembering you. And it hurt to remember."
She rubbed across his knuckles gently, silently noting the various nicks and scratches that ran across his glowing bones. Everything about him spoke of a rough afterlife. Even his clothes were practically unraveling. Dr. García was right. He'd been fading for a long time before this.
She almost lost him. She'd tried to deny and ignore that fact all morning with the same determination that she'd used to ignore the man for so long. But it was hard to pretend when his bones still shone brightly and he looked completely lifeless.
He died ninety-six years ago, alone in some strange town. Imelda didn't know how Ernesto murdered him, but Héctor died without his family. He probably didn't even have anyone waiting for him in the Land of the Dead; she'd known he was orphaned at a young age, so no one would have remembered his parents. Héctor died alone and she never realized what happened.
She lost him to death while believing she'd lost him to music and the hunt for fame. And this morning, just as she let him back in her presence once more, the Final Death nearly stole him away again.
It could still happen. The light hadn't faded. Not even slightly. Héctor remained on the very edge. His very existence was balanced on that razor-thin line, ready to tip over at any moment without any warning. And that scared her more than she wanted to admit.
"You made a mistake," she said. "And that mistake cost both of us so much, idiota. But I made mistakes as well." Imelda squeezed his hand softly before relaxing her grip once more. "Mistakes that brought us here. Mistakes that caused this to happen to you. You've apologized to me."
She trailed off briefly, unable to smother out the memory of the way he'd claimed all responsibility for what happened even as he tried to recover from the brief shimmer of gold across his bones that left him on his knees. No excuses or even a request for forgiveness. Only an honest apology. He didn't even seem to blame her for the way the unnatural light tried to overtake him.
He should have blamed her at least little. He should have hated her. He was dying because Imelda tried to erase all memory of him. And yet he merely said that it was his fault.
"It isn't easy to admit this, but I was wrong to try and have you forgotten. I'm sorry, Héctor."
She closed her eyes briefly, taking a shaking breath. He couldn't hear her. She knew that. Héctor was too far gone, too empty and still. He was too close to the Final Death.
"You better come back, idiota. You better come back to us," she said. "If you never hear my apology…" Imelda opened her eyes. "You have to wake up. You are not allowed to leave me a second time. I won't let you."
She quietly begged Coco to remember her father. And for Miguel to find a way to learn those stories so he could also remember Héctor. If Coco didn't find a way to pass down those memories to a family who wanted nothing to do with the man, then it was only a matter of time. Unless someone else eventually remembered Héctor, then he would soon be forgotten.
With her free hand, Imelda reached over to cup his face briefly. As bright as the golden-orange light might be, there were certain points that glowed even brighter. Around every joint on his body and especially his facial markings, the light shone with a nearly-blinding intensity. She couldn't even tell what colors those along his cheekbone were meant to be. And she'd never allowed herself the chance to look at his face in death to memorize the colors before.
And she'd come so close to never having the chance. He could have disappeared that morning. He could still crumble into dust right now. She did this to him. This was her fault.
How could she have been so blind? What in their time together made her believe even for a moment that Héctor would abandon his family, let alone believe that for ninety-six years? That was part of the reason it hurt so much; no matter the whispers and gossip about traveling musicians might suggest, leaving them and never coming back just didn't seem like him. She should have realized there was something wrong. She should have trusted him more. Why didn't she figure out that something must have happened to him?
He was her husband. She knew him better than that. She loved Héctor. She should have had more faith in him.
But instead, she let the whispers of the neighbors poison her thoughts enough that Imelda assumed the worst. What kind of love was that?
Perhaps she was being too hard on herself. Hindsight could cast some harsh shadows on the past. It was easy to berate herself for those choice, but she was younger then and had no way to learn the truth. How would she have been able to uncover what really happened to Héctor? Why would anyone suspect that Ernesto murdered his best friend, the man that he grew up with and treated like a brother? She shouldn't blame herself for not knowing enough or figuring it out when she was alive.
But it was hard to believe that when she saw Héctor trapped on the brink of the Final Death and she knew that she brought him to this fate. It was hard not to blame herself for the silent and still figure on her bed, his bones glowing, brittle, and about to crumble to dust at any moment.
"I never meant to do this to you," Imelda said quietly, her thumb tracing the markings along his cheekbone. "Oh, Héctor… What have I put you though?"
Her increasingly-uncomfortable reflections came to an abrupt halt at an unexpected sound. Specifically, a knock at the front door.
Fighting back a yawn, Miguel concluded, "And then they touched the cempazúchitl petal to my chest and I appeared back on the floor of the crypt. That's when I grabbed the guitar and ran back home. You know what happened next."
Mamá Coco's wrinkled face twisted into a thoughtful expression before giving a slow nod. Her eyes pressed closed. She was clearly taking the story quite seriously.
There were parts that Miguel didn't want to tell her. Like when he accused Héctor of being selfish. Or when he yelled at Dante. He wasn't proud of those moments. But he told her.
And there were parts that he tried to downplay as much as possible. The biggest thing that Miguel tried to minimize as much as possible was Héctor's condition. He mentioned Héctor being tired, but he didn't talk about the way the golden light flashed and shimmered around his joints and facial markings and his body spasmed violently with each episode. He didn't talk about how weak Héctor was at the end, unable to even raise his head and his hand shaking enough that Mamá Imelda needed to help him hold the petal. Miguel tried to avoid those details, but he suspected that he still said enough for her to figure out the seriousness of the situation.
"I didn't mean to forget him," she said quietly. "I don't mean to forget anything. It just keeps slipping away…"
"But you remember right now," said Miguel. "And you told the rest of us, so we can help remember for you. Papá Héctor is safe now. And he loves you so much and can't wait to see you again. Next year, we'll put the foto on the ofrenda so he can visit. Even Abuelita will agree to it now. You saw her. She'll agree to anything you want."
He knew Héctor would be all right. Miguel silently reassured himself of that. It didn't matter how weak and tired he seemed at the end. Mamá Coco remembered and now the rest of the family did too. Héctor wouldn't be forgotten. He wouldn't disappear. Everything would be all right.
"I don't want to forget again, míjo," she continued.
She opened her eyes and Miguel swore he saw a little bit of Héctor in her gaze… and a lot of Imelda. Specifically, he saw her fiery temper flickering in Mamá Coco's eyes.
"And I don't want Ernesto to get away with what he did. There must be something we can do."
"People need to know the truth. I just don't know how to tell them," said Miguel, rubbing at his eyes blearily. "How can we get people to listen? No one wants to think Ernesto de la Cruz could be a fraud. Or a murderer."
She reached over and cupped his face gently. Miguel smiled at her. The anger at Ernesto might be Mamá Imelda's influence, but the gesture was identical to how Héctor did the same thing not too long ago. It was amazing how many mannerisms she shared with her parents now that she could remember a little and now that he knew what to look for.
"We'll figure something out," assured Mamá Coco. "Even if I forget, I'll help you if I can."
"And if you forget, I'll play your song and remind you," he said.
When he yawned, Mamá Coco gave him a knowing look and said, "Get some sleep, míjo. It isn't good for you to stay up so long."
"Sí, Mamá Coco." He leaned over and pressed a quick kiss on her hair. "And thanks."
Imelda froze, her mind briefly going blank. There was someone at the front door. Not at their shop, but the door to their home. She couldn't ignore it.
Her bedroom was the closest, though Oscar and Felipe shared a room down the hall (they still preferred that to having separate rooms). Everyone else had rooms the next floor up, architecture in the Land of the Dead leaning towards a more vertical form of expansion. They wouldn't hear the knocking. Especially if they followed her advice to get some sleep. She was the only one who would answer the door.
But Imelda couldn't prevent the sharp spike of fear that jolted through her at the idea of leaving the room, even for a moment. She couldn't do that. What if she stepped away for just a moment and that was when it happened? What if he was gone by the time she came back? It could happen at any moment. There would be no warning, not when Héctor was so close.
She didn't want to leave him alone because of that foolish paranoid fear that he would disappear the moment Imelda left his side. But she knew that it wouldn't change anything. If he finally succumbed to the Final Death, there would be nothing she could do to stop it. And yet she felt like the only thing holding him in existence was the fact she was with him.
As long as she could see him, he wasn't gone. But if she couldn't see him, she wouldn't know…
Another firm and professional knock reminded Imelda that she couldn't ignore the rest of the world. So she reluctantly set his hand carefully on his motionless chest and slowly stood up from her chair. Backing away from the bed was even more difficult. Imelda had to force her feet to move.
It would only be for a moment. Just long enough to chase off whoever thought right now was an appropriate time to visit. He would be fine, Imelda silently assured herself. Héctor managed to hang on so far, even when Imelda knelt down next to him backstage and was completely certain he would be gone before the sun broke over the horizon. He could hold on a moment more.
She pushed back any doubts about stepping out of the room briefly, refusing to acknowledge them. Just like she ignored the way she felt something ache and twist tightly in her empty ribcage.
Knowing it was pointless to even try, Imelda still said, "Hold on, Héctor. I'll be back. Just hold on."
Glancing at the lifeless skeleton one last time, she hurried out the door and down the stairs. The staircase brought her to the tastefully-decorated parlor. There was a third knock before Imelda crossed the room and finally answered the door.
Imelda almost snapped at them immediately to leave. She didn't have time to deal with this. But that instinctive reaction sputtered to a halt as she properly took in her visitor. The young woman with a friendly face and the Marigold Grand Central Station uniform made her pause. She couldn't figure out why a Departures agent would be on their doorstep.
"Can… I help you?" asked Imelda carefully.
"Señora Imelda Rivera?" she asked.
"Sí."
The agent shifted slightly, drawing Imelda's attention briefly to the bundle of yellow and blue fabric in her arms. It looked surprisingly similar to the dresses they'd used to sneak into the Sunrise Spectacular.
"Sorry to disturb you like this, Señora. I know you and your family had a busy night. I managed to catch the important part of the broadcast for the Sunrise Spectacular after my shift and my quick visit to see my family." She ducked her head in brief embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I'm not handling this very well. Let me start over. My name is Helena López and I work at Marigold Grand Central Station. Mostly in Arrivals during the year, but I deal with Departures during Día de Muertos."
"Are you here about Miguel?" asked Imelda. It was the only thing that made sense for her to be there. "He made it home, if that's what you need to know."
The agent shook her head quickly and said, "No, that's not it. Though I'm glad to hear that. The broadcast ended not long after Ernesto de la Cruz encountered that bell. So I knew the boy survived the fall, but not much of what happened afterwards. But I'm here for another reason." She raised the bundle of fabric in her arms briefly. "I am returning some property that we confiscated last night."
Then she abruptly shook her head again, her bright smile briefly vanishing. Helena stared at the increasingly-confused Imelda.
"Actually, that is more of an excuse than anything. I felt I needed a reason to show up. I check in Shantytown first, but no one had seen him since last night. And since I'm a little too curious for my own good and did some investigating a couple decades ago, I recognized who you were on stage and realized there was one more place to check."
"I… I don't understand," said Imelda.
Helena smiled nervously and said, "I was looking for Héctor. After how he seemed last night when I saw him and what everyone heard the boy and de la Cruz say on the broadcast, I was concerned about him."
Imelda blinked in surprise, unable to think for a moment. Then her words began to sink in properly.
"Please come in."
Regarding Mamá Coco and the fact that they could coax back her memory with a song, I did find one possible theory. Depressive pseudodementia is a syndrome seen in older people in which they exhibit symptoms consistent with dementia but the cause is actually depression. Older people with predominantly cognitive symptoms such as loss of memory, and vagueness, as well as prominent slowing of movement and reduced or slowed speech, were sometimes misdiagnosed as having dementia when further investigation showed they were suffering from a major depressive episode. And unlike actual dementia, depressive pseudodementia can be reversed.
It doesn't take much imagination to extrapolate that an old woman who spent a lifetime hoping for her father's return while her mother did everything possible to erase all traces of him, having music (something that reminded her of happy times with her parents) banished from her life, and also managed to outlive not only her mother and uncles, but also her husband, her sister-in-law, and even one of her daughters might end up in a depressive mindset. Bringing back music to her life and allowing her to talk about her father after all this time might theoretically do her some good.
As for Helena López, I borrowed the name and some of other info from im-fairly-whitty on Tumblr. She's the woman running the scanner that Héctor tried to use in the movie.