So the movie is finally out on DVD, Blu-Ray, and so on, which means I got to watch all the bonus stuff. Which was fun. Some of the deleted scenes were especially entertaining. But I can definitely understand why many of them were deleted. Especially the one where the living Rivera family explained that they were shoemakers and anti-music… in a song. I think the irony was too great.
"You're really going to the biblioteca?" asked Rosa, trying to keep close to him while the surge of children rushing out of the school at the sound of a bell kept trying to drive the pair apart.
"I need a couple books for a project," Miguel said with a shrug and his most charming grin. "And my parents said I could go if I let them know. So… could you tell them for me?"
Giving him a suspicious look, she asked, "It is for a school project, right?"
"Of course," he lied, struggling to keep his voice from going squeaky. "Why else would I want to read a bunch of boring books? And I promise I won't be too long. So could you please tell them where I'm going? I promise I'll owe you. Anything you want. I'll even help you babysit Benny and Manny next time."
Miguel silently begged his prima to accept. Otherwise he would have to go home first and then do a lot of backtracking. It would be faster and easier to go straight to the biblioteca. And he needed to go. He had several things to accomplish with his rudimentary plan. And the best place to start would be at the biblioteca.
Shaking her head tiredly, Rosa said, "Fine. But—"
Miguel didn't wait any longer, taking off like lightning. He slipped into his more effective running style, speeding through the streets and eventually rounding on the old building. It had been expanded, repurposed, and partially rebuilt multiple times, giving it an asymmetrical nature. But it remained sturdy. He wouldn't be surprised if it would eventually outlast the entire Rivera family.
Stepping inside, the smell of dusty old books and the heavy silence practically wrapped around him like a warm blanket. Normally, Miguel would be bored out of his mind in this place. The shelves of books, the old newspaper clippings tucked away in binders, partially-faded records hidden in locked-up archives, and other dry collections of papers weren't exactly the most thrilling things for a young boy. And the silence frustrated a soul desperate for music.
But to help Papá Héctor and to expose Ernesto de la Cruz, this was the perfect place to be.
Miguel was already trying to help as much as he could. Getting Mamá Coco to tell him and their family was just the start. At school, they were supposed to discuss Día de Muertos and he managed to tell them about Papá Héctor. He couldn't tell the other kids about Ernesto being a fraud or a murderer, but he could tell them a few of Mamá Coco's stories. Just enough to make them interested and for them to remember Héctor. He could always tell them more later. But for now, it was at least something.
"Can I help you?" asked a librarian, startling Miguel out of his thoughts.
The woman instantly reminded him a bit of Tía Victoria, her hair pulled up and her glasses perched on her nose. But there was more gray in her hair. She wasn't as old as Abuelita though. And she seemed friendly, her smile honest and welcoming.
"Sí," he said quickly. "I need a few things. Can you help me pick out a few books about Señor Ernesto de la Cruz? Mostly about his early years, before he became famous? But nothing he wrote himself. Someone else who did the research and wrote it."
Smiling at him, the woman adjusted her glasses and asked, "Working on a school project on the local celebrity?"
"Something like that," he said, trying not to grit his teeth at how beloved the man still was. "But I need the really thick books with lots of details about de la Cruz when he lived here and when he first started touring. Lots of details. The more details and proof, the better. Oh, and I need something that gives the dates for when he's supposed to have written his different songs."
"So no autobiographies, but well-researched and heavily-documented biographies." Nodding thoughtfully, she said, "I have a few ideas. They might be a bit dry and difficult for you to read through."
"I'll manage. And… and my teacher wants us to… to make sure the project has a balanced viewpoint or something," Miguel continued, improvising as best he could. "Do you have any books about conspiracy theories to do with him?"
"A bit much for school work, don't you think? Are you one of those people who thinks the bell incident wasn't an accident?" asked the librarian, leading him through the shelves.
"No, nothing like that. Other stuff. About the early years and his music. Someone must have come up with some crazy theories about him."
Pulling a couple thick books down, she said, "I'll have to do a little looking, but there might be something. But if you really want a variety of sources, I can check the archive for you. We have some birth records, censuses, and so on from the right time period. We kind of ended up as general storage at one point decades ago and ended up inheriting them. There might be something that will really impress your teacher in there. I can't loan out the originals, but I can make copies for you."
Grinning brightly, Miguel said, "That would be great. Gracias. Anything you could find about him would be perfect."
"De nada. I'm happy to help. This is the most interesting thing I've done all month. Anything else I can do for you?" she said.
Miguel set his backpack down and opened it. He tried to be careful with it when he borrowed it that morning, far more careful than he'd been on Día de Muertos. He'd tucked it between the pages of his textbook so that it wouldn't get crushed or torn again. But he needed to do this before his family replaced the broken frame. Otherwise he would have to give them an explanation on why he needed to take it.
"I really need to copy this," said Miguel, holding up the repaired family portrait. "It's the only foto we have Héctor, my great-great-grandfather. He was a musician when my Mamá Coco was a little girl. She said that he used to play in Santa Cecilia and people would ask him to perform at their weddings and so on because he was so talented. He was amazing."
Shifting the books in her arms, the librarian took the foto. She stared at the image of Mamá Imelda, Mamá Coco as a child, and the newly-restored Papá Héctor for a moment. He could tell that she recognized the guitar, just like Miguel did the moment he saw it. And he could definitely tell that she was starting to wonder about his book requests and whether they connected to the foto. But she didn't ask. Not yet. She simply turned back towards Miguel with a gentle expression.
"We do have a color copier, but there's a small fee to use it," she said. "If I make copies of anything from the archives, I can probably let that slide. But if you want this foto copied, I have to charge you for it."
Miguel dug into his pocket, pulling out a small fistful of money. All the money he'd saved secretly to buy Ernesto de la Cruz merchandise before he learned the truth, his allowance, and even all the coins he'd found in different random places was poured into the surprised librarian's hand. He knew it wasn't really that much, but it was all he could scrounge together.
"How many copies can I buy with this?" he asked. "I need as many as possible. Just in case."
When she returned to the workshop carrying the tattered straw hat in her arms, Imelda's brothers were wise enough not to comment. They just tucked away whatever project that they'd been trying to stealthily work on in her absence and turned their attention back to the waiting order. And while it wasn't her best work, Imelda managed to finish the shoes by the end of the day. She just needed to take her time and double-check every step so she didn't repeat her earlier amateur mistakes. And if her gaze drifted to Héctor's hat, she didn't have to admit it.
Imelda planned to go check on him as soon as possible. As they locked up the workshop for the evening, her thoughts were already by his side. But as she and her brothers started across the courtyard, Rosita and Victoria finally wandered in from the street. They both looked worn out, though Rosita certainly looked worse. Imelda hadn't even realized they were still out so late.
"Did you finish your errands?" she asked.
"Sí," said Rosita, fighting back a yawn. "Sorry, Mamá Imelda. I need to get some sleep before dinner."
Nodding, she gestured to her and Rosita hurried inside. She deserved a chance to get some sleep. They all needed some rest, but Imelda suspected she wouldn't sleep any better than the night before.
"We went to where Héctor has been staying," said Victoria quietly, crossing her arms. "His home."
"How would you know where that would be?" Oscar asked.
Felipe continued, "It isn't like he told us his address."
"Or that we ever bothered to ask."
"Though maybe we really should have."
"It wasn't hard. There's only one place it could be. As Tía Rosita pointed out, where else would you find someone on the brink of being forgotten? He's been staying in Shantytown for decades."
Imelda stiffened briefly, staring at her granddaughter. She'd suspected as much. She had ever since it truly hit her that night, that he was being forgotten, and she actually bothered to consider the implications. She didn't expect Rosita and Victoria to go down there though. No one ever went down to Shantytown unless they had no choice.
"The people down there thought Héctor had disappeared and were relieved to hear that he hasn't experienced the Final Death," Victoria continued, not mentioning the "yet" that they all knew dangled above that sentence. "But his home… There wasn't much. All we could find was evidence of how much he wanted to get across the marigold bridge. How much he wanted to get home. There were dozens of plans. Nothing else. That was literally all he had, Mamá Imelda." She adjusted her glasses. "The trip wasn't what we originally intended, but it was quite educational. And we set up a pallet in your office before we left. We thought you might like having somewhere to sleep that's a little more permanent than Tía Rosita's room."
She didn't know what else to say or do in response except to nod and say, "Gracias, míja." She looked down at the hat in her grip and added, "That was very thoughtful."
"Tía Rosita came up with the idea," said Victoria as the rest of them stepped into the house.
Just as Imelda suspected, she felt herself pulled up the stairs by her worried thoughts like a thread pulled by a needle. She didn't pause until she reached the doorway to her room. Julio instantly stood up when he saw her. Imelda gave her son-in-law a brief nod of acknowledgement, but her focus was drawn to the bed like always.
Héctor remained perfectly still and silent. An optimistic hope whispered that maybe the light seemed a little dimmer than before, maybe he looked a little less fragile. But if that was true, it was only slightly. It was too subtle for her to be certain. And Imelda might be seeing what she wanted. She wanted some tangible evidence of improvement and might be imagining it.
She set his hat on the handle of her wardrobe, letting it hang there. Then Imelda sat on the edge of the bed and took his hand. Still too cool to the touch, too fragile, and empty of all signs of life. Héctor might be physically with them, but he remained a hollow shell. The spark, the energy, and the emotion that made the man who he was wasn't there.
"I'm sorry, Mamá Imelda," Julio said quietly, his gaze dropping to the floor. "There's been no changes so far."
"I know," said Imelda, carefully setting Héctor's hand back on the quilt. "Thank you for sitting with him all day."
"It was no trouble. Would you like me to sit with him a little longer?"
She shook her head and said, "No, you deserve a break. I can stay here for a while. Go and check on your daughter downstairs. It's been a long day for everyone. We can work out plans for dinner later."
"Of course," he said. "I'll see what Victoria has been up to today. I heard her and Rosita earlier, but they left a while ago."
He slipped out and walked down the stairs, leaving Imelda alone with Héctor. She stared at him, trying to convince herself that the golden-orange light emitting from his bones was dimmer. She wanted any sign of improvement. She wanted proof that he was getting better. Imelda knew it was probably her imagination and that she was scrambling for any possibility. She knew that any improvement that she believed she saw was merely stubborn hope and nothing more.
But she needed this hope. And he needed her to believe in him. This time, she needed to believe that Héctor would make it back. She couldn't give up on him again.
They kept pulling, drawing him back to Before. They remembered him and their memories kept dragging him back. Slow and constant. Never letting go.
And as he was drawn back the way that he'd come, as he became gradually more real, his own memories started to resurface. At least, they might be his memories. But they were all jumbled and confusing. He couldn't seem to keep the past and present separated. Everything kept melting together in a chaotic mixture—
—His body ached, his bones battered as he tried to pull himself together after being thrown in a cenote onto the stones below. He could barely concentrate. Horror, anger, and betrayed hurt swirled around (it couldn't be true, we were friends, I just wanted to go home) as his mind rebelled against the truth. But a splash and then a shout pulled him stumbling from the shadows.
Soaking wet and terrified, the boy (the living boy, Chamaco) practically tackled him in a desperate hug before he could properly register the boy's presence (why was he here too, he couldn't be here, he was supposed to be sent home). Frantic words spilled out of the boy about how that musician left him to this fate and his regrets over his final harsh words to his family. He pulled the boy (he's just a child, a scared and lost child) back into the hug and held the child close, trying to reassure Chamaco that it wasn't his fault (how could that man toss away this precious boy, he loved the musician without even knowing him, how could that man leave Chamaco to die, the man didn't deserve this family, I found Chamaco first anyway) and that it would be all right.
They were both trapped, but there had to be a way (there's hope, there's always hope, hope for both of us) to get the boy home in time. Chamaco would be all right.
And then he felt something cold and sharp wash over him (no, not yet, I can't) and his breathing hitched. He could barely (don't fall on Chamaco, don't hurt him, move, move) push himself away before he lost complete control of his shaking limbs. He stumbled and fell back onto the stones, lost in golden light that tried to engulf him as he tried (it hurts, hold on, it'll pass, but it hurts) to keep himself together. His strength fell away and the brief episode passed as suddenly as it struck, leaving him weak and sore. And his final stubborn and desperate hope crumbled—
—He held the tiny baby that was placed in his arms, her size and delicateness leaving him almost too scared to move or breathe. Her crying was finally beginning to ease off. Still red-faced and wrinkled (so beautiful, so precious, míja), she was finally here. From her tiny fingers and toes to the faintest wisps of dark hair on her head, he couldn't stop staring at this perfect miracle. He could scarcely believe that she was real. And he could barely believe how much he already loved her.
He looked up at the young woman (mi amor, mi vida, mi alma) lying exhausted in the bed. Shaking with relief from the long labor finally at an end, soaked with sweat that plastered her hair to her head, and completely worn out, she was breath-takingly beautiful in every way. She smiled weakly and reached up to them, prompting him to sit next to his wife. He leaned over so they could both hold the baby together.
He kissed his wife's sweat-soaked temple (always beautiful, always awe-inspiring, I couldn't love her more if I tried) and murmured sweet words to both of them. His family. This was his family. He never thought he would have this (never alone, never again, never let them go) and he couldn't be happier. Everything was perfect—
—The spontaneous performance with whatever instruments that they could scrounge together around Shantytown broke off abruptly as Tía collapsed, golden light (no, no, it can't be) flashing across her body. He moved quickly, almost instantly reaching her side and trying to help her up. The others followed with concerned expressions, carefully settling her on the barrel to let her rest. But Tía looked resigned.
He hadn't seen it in person before, but he'd heard enough (not fair, can't stop it, it'll be me someday) to know this was the Final Death. Everyone in Shantytown knew plenty about it, probably more than anyone else in the Land of the Dead since it came for them so often. While they could resist for a little while once the golden light started flaring up from their bones, it wasn't easy and it wouldn't last long. They couldn't stop the inevitable. They would run out of strength as the spasms and flashes grew closer together until they became nearly constant. And each episode grew more intense and painful until their bodies grew numb from exhaustion (a kindness, dying the first time was painful enough) and they eventually succumbed.
But Tía wouldn't fight the inevitable (no, why, why do I keep losing everyone) when those alive had forgotten her. She wanted to depart on her own terms. She smiled at them, all the younger souls she'd helped and comforted in her time down there. She'd welcomed him when he first wandered down, heartbroken (I want to go home, I want to see my girls, please, I need to see them) and barely able to comprehend that they wouldn't let him cross the bridge. Tía helped him so much (family, not my original family, not my wife or míja or the man who was like a brother, but she was family anyway) and now she was dying. And there was nothing that they could do to help.
She closed her eyes, still smiling (how was she so content, how could she be at peace, it wasn't fair, it was too soon) as the golden-orange light washed over her. And she allowed it. Tía let her bones dissolve (it's not supposed to hurt as much if you don't fight it) into dust and drift away—
—Standing on the stage, she (mi amor, mi vida, me alma) managed to shake off the worst of her stage fright as security started edging towards her. As soon as she sang the first few words of her favorite song, the sound sent of shiver of familiar awe through his tired bones (I missed this, I missed her, I almost never heard her sing again) and he could almost pretend that no time had passed. She was still so beautiful and warm.
And then Chamaco pushed a guitar into his hands and he was playing before he could think. She looked surprised at first until she saw him smiling encouragingly from the wings, when she realized that the music was his. That he was supporting and helping her the only way that he could. Holding the photograph tight in her hands, she smiled at him. Just like she used to so long ago—
—He played energetically, trying to coax a grin out of the señorita (stubborn, strong-willed, bright, smart, warm) as her younger brothers grinned mischievously. His best friend said he was crazy, but he couldn't resist (I love her, I already love her with all my heart) spending time around her. Her family would never consider him more than just some foolish boy with no future, but she didn't immediately chase him off the moment she saw his face. Only occasionally. That was more than most people could claim; she was not one to suffer the presence of fools. Except for possibly him. Half the time, she would tolerate his company.
When his current song didn't get the reaction he wanted, he changed to another. This time, she paused. There was a sparkle in her eyes (interested, warm, excited) as the music picked up. His fingers danced across the strings with practiced ease as he smiled at her. And as he reached the chorus, she stopped resisting.
She started quietly and hesitant, a soft song that slipped past her lips. But it built as she gained confidence (such a beautiful voice, filled with warmth and love, I can't believe I get to hear it) and soon she was matching him completely. His voice joined in, the song becoming a duet. But he let her lead, letting her voice direct the song while he supported her. He would be perfectly content to remain in this moment for as long as possible, listening to her sing—
—Her face was a skull with colorful markings, streaks of gray ran through her dark hair, and she wore a heavy leather apron over her dress that he would have never imagined on her, but he still recognized her instantly. She looked so stern and rigid now, but it was her. And he couldn't hide how much he missed her (mi amor, mi vida, mi alma) after all this time.
But the warm and comforting fire that he remembered in her eyes was replaced with a volatile and raging inferno. She yelled at him (too much pain in her face, too much pain in her fury), snarling accusations (how could she think that, what did I do to shatter her trust, how much must I have hurt her to break her like this) and flinging the details of her harsh life (I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt her, I never wanted to hurt her) back in his face. And every sharp word cut into him like a knife.
People were staring. She didn't care. And he couldn't respond.
It wasn't just anger. It was pain, sorrow, frustration, and hate. He did this. He did this to her. And he couldn't find a single word (I'm sorry, I should have never left, I want you, I miss you, I love you, I want to come home, I'm sorry) that could make things right. So he stood mutely as she (mi amor, mi vida, mi alma) verbally tore him to shreds—
—He couldn't tell what was real or memory. He couldn't even drag up all the details in the jumbled mess. Names continued to slip away, even his own. Conversations were vague, feelings instead of exact words. And he couldn't tell which thoughts and emotions were old and which were current. Everything blurred together in a confusing mixture.
But he kept feeling more and more real. More and more solid. They kept pulling him back with their memories.
And as he gradually grew closer, pain began to return—
—Thankful to be back on solid ground rather than clinging to the fierce alebrije high above the city, he held his hat in front of his chest as the beautiful woman (mi amor, mi vida, mi alma) turned her sharp words towards him. But before she could truly start tearing his long-absent heart to pieces, Chamaco (míjo, my boy, my family) placed himself between them.
The boy defended him, staring down decades of anger without hesitation and refusing to back down. Chamaco asked her to help retrieve the stolen photograph, to help him get home. As she reminded them that he left (I'm sorry, I should have stayed, I should have listened), Chamaco retorted that he tried to return and that he was murdered for that choice. That his best friend (how could he, why, was fame worth my life) killed him for those songs.
And when he confirmed the boy's words, he saw a flicker of regret in her eyes that she quickly hid behind her anger. She was still upset and still hurt. He tried to speak to her (she's listening to me, I can apologize finally) and took a step towards her.
But the sharp, cold, and intense sensation (not again, it hurts, it's worse, make it stop) swept over him again in a golden light (hold on, not yet, I can't let go yet) and he crumbled to the ground like a puppet with cut strings. His breath caught in his ribcage as his body briefly spasmed. As the glow faded from his bones, leaving him on his hands and knees and too wobbly to get back up yet (I'm running out of time), the boy knelt beside him with a worried expression—
—The fast and energetic music rang through him as he slipped into the beat naturally, dancing on the stage (crazy dog, I wasn't ready, it's been too long) as Chamaco played the familiar song. It gave him the strength that he thought was beyond him (running out of time, I need to get the boy home soon) and reminded him how much he missed performing. The boy (so talented, so bright, so determined, so wonderful) moved in sync to his quick and improvised routine with minimal communication and he adapted to Chamaco's growing confidence.
It was like they'd performed together a thousand times (like me and my best friend when I was alive, familiar and fun) rather than being the first time the boy stood before an audience. And Chamaco's love for the music shone brightly in his eyes and echoed with every note. Even with everything that was at stake, he let himself enjoy the moment. He let the music and the boy bring an honest smile to his face—
—He set the guitar down just in time to catch her (mi amor, mi vida, mi alma) in his arms, laughing brightly from the thrill of her performance and hugging him. He was startled and he didn't have much energy left, but he managed to hold her (I missed this, I missed her) and spun her around in the brief embrace. And then they realized what they were doing, pulling apart and acting as bashful as shy teenagers. Cautious and gentle words were exchanged until Chamaco interrupted.
They had the foto and they needed to send the boy home. And then Chamaco would put it on the ofrenda (there was still time, get the alebrije to fly me to the bridge, I can run across, doesn't matter if I can't return before dawn breaks, I'll see míja, just a glimpse, after that doesn't matter, the Final Death can come) and he could finally get home.
He felt calm. It's all right. Everything would be all right. He heard her sing and saw her smile one last time. Chamaco would be safe and home. And he would get one last look at his daughter (for real, not just the photograph, but even seeing the foto of míja after so long was a blessing, I'd almost forgot her face, I didn't mean to, it's been so long, I just want to see my daughter) before the Final Death took him.
As his wife extended the glowing petal towards Chamaco (míjo, he's family), he knew it would be all right now—
—He ran as fast as his short legs would carry him, laughing as the angry farmer chasing them fell behind. They were both going to be in so much trouble when they got back to Orfanato de la Cruz, but it was worth it. He couldn't wipe the grin off his face.
He followed behind the older boy (my best friend, my only family) as they ran through the dusty streets. Those who saw them rolled their eyes and shook their heads. The two of them were already known as troublemakers, but most of the people saw their mischief as harmless fun and mildly entertaining at times.
There was usually a plan, a goal in mind that his friend would explain in excited detail. It would be fun, they would get something nice out of it, or it would make their lives better. Or, more and more frequently, it would make people like them more. His friend thrived on praise and would seek it out eagerly.
It was part of the reason why the older boy was now carrying the angry farmer's old guitar as they ran, the one the man barely touched anymore and probably wouldn't have missed if the man didn't spot them "borrowing" it. Well, the man spotted him rather than both of them. Since he was smaller and the older boy was too big to slip inside as easily, it made more sense for him to be the one to sneak in and grab it.
His friend didn't know how to play yet, not having been friendly enough to the old man (kind, cared about the children of Santa Cecilia, his own children long gone, generous, encouraging) that lived near the church. He'd managed to bargain a few lessons and a chance to practice on the old man's prized instrument while his friend initially thought he was wasting his time. The older boy didn't get to enjoy the impressed look and encouraging (proud) smile as he quickly learned how to make the guitar behave the way he wanted, to produce beautiful sounds the old man's stiff fingers could no longer match.
But he could teach his friend and then they could both play for others. And his friend could share the praise and attention too, making the older boy happy. It would be fun to share music with the older boy, to show his friend how to make the songs in his head become real. They just needed a guitar.
It was a good idea. The older boy always had the best ideas. And his best friend actually had the nerve to go through with it, even if they both knew that the farmer had a bit of a temper. He knew that his friend would always take advantage of any opportunity that presented itself.
And yes, listening to the older boy often got him in over his head. But he would follow his friend anywhere—
—Every year, he tried to cross the bridge (I have to get home, I have to see míja) and that meant devising new plans each time. And he'd grown rather creative over the decades. It would work eventually (this year, this time, I'll make it this time, it has to work), so he needed to keep trying.
He couldn't stop. He couldn't give up. He had to keep trying (because stopping would mean I don't care enough to come home, because stopping would mean I don't love my daughter enough to come back to her, because stopping would mean she isn't important enough to me) no matter how many attempts he needed.
And this year, he would need to borrow a van for his plan to work. So he was pleading and bargaining with the grumpiest person in Shantytown. The man was also one of the few people left who would still help him, who thought he was crazy and yet would still go along with his plans. The man would just glare up at him from under his large hat and mutter darkly about all the trouble he caused.
He'd already exhausted most of his other options long ago, though he might be able to work out something with a couple other people if things grew desperate. And it wouldn't be too much longer before the man (a friend, a friend I'll lose like everyone else, how many times have I seen the Final Death now, how many are gone) lost patience with his schemes as well. The man would eventually stop loaning out belongings that were never returned.
But for now, a pair of keys were dropped grudgingly into his hand—
—His calm and peace shattered violently, that murderer grabbing the boy (no, leave Chamaco alone, not him) and yanking him back. And before he could react, his wife dove for the boy and was knocked aside by the man.
He briefly paused to make sure she (mi amor) was unharmed before turning back, trying to reclaim the boy (míjo) before that man could take anything else from him. He had to stop the musician. He and the others (family, her family, my family) moved in as the man ordered them back. The crazy dog (crazy little alebrije) tried to drag Chamaco to safety, prompting the man to yank and throw the boy closer to the edge.
Begging the man (my childhood friend, my murderer) to stop, he wasn't ready when cold and sharp pain (no, not yet, it hurts, not yet) flashed through him. His legs collapsed under him and he fell flat. But the instant it passed (too weak, running out of energy to resist, running out of time), he continued pleading for the boy's life. She (mi vida) knelt worriedly next to him and he could barely hold himself up on his elbows, but he kept talking desperately to the musician.
But Chamaco (míjo, my wonderful boy) yelled insults against the man in his defense (don't do it, I can't stop the man, too weak, fading, I'm useless, helpless, I can't) and provoked the murderer. The man grabbed and lifted the boy (no, no, I need to get up, I have to stop him, no) from the ground. And with a final harsh growl of his famous saying, the musician (murderer, betrayer, monster) hurtled (no, no, no) the boy (not him, don't take him too) off the deadly edge—
—It hurt. Slowly and gradually, he was returning. Back to where there was a physical body, exhaustion, and pain. There was still a long way to go, but it was still starting to hurt. A distant pain, but one that he could tell would worsen as he drew near.
And it hurt so much. And he felt so… so… tired…
He didn't want to exist. He didn't want a physical shape. He didn't want pain. He didn't want those remembering to bring him back to pain.
It was hard to understand why he should want to go back when disappearing seemed so much easier—
—His fingers gently moved across the strings, the music produced as tender and loving as his feelings for the child sitting on the edge of her bed. The way her face lit up when he played this song (her song, míja) always made him smile.
He wrote it for her so that even when he left (don't leave her, don't leave, stay, stay with both of them), his daughter would know that he was thinking about her, would come home soon (no, no, no, I just want to come home), and loved her with all his heart. And hearing her childish voice join his at the end would be a wonderful memory to accompany him as he went on this tour with his best friend. But he was going to miss his little girl so much—
—She was angry with him. Angry and hurt. She was even refusing to turn and look at him. She (mi amor, mi vida, mi alma) didn't want him to go. Not so far and not for so long.
He wrapped his arms around her from behind, hugging her close as he pressed a kiss into her bound hair and whispered loving words (mi amor, mi vida, mi alma) like a song meant only for her. He felt torn between his desire to stay with the woman and child he loved so deeply and the man who was practically a brother (stay, don't go, don't leave) who promised to help him give his family the life that they deserved. His friend promised that the trip and the fame would give him inspiration for new songs, a chance to share his music with the world, and enough money for his girls to live comfortably.
His wife once had a better life, a more comfortable life. But she chose an orphan musician against her parents' wishes and accepted a life with him instead. Only her brothers would speak to them, sneaking out to see her despite everything until they were old enough to leave their parents in turn. But she deserved better. And he would give her and their daughter the best life that he could.
So he would have to leave (stay, stay, stay with them) for a little while.
He felt her relax against him as he whispered reassurances and promises. He would come back. He loved her and their daughter. It would only be for a short time. He would come home to her soon. Each promise was sealed with a soft kiss to her dark hair, his arms hugging her tight (don't let go, never let her go) as her hands eventually reached for his.
She twisted in his grip until she could face him. The anger and hurt remained in her eyes, but it was being swallowed up by the trust and love also there. Her hands slid up his arms until she reached his shoulders. One wrapped across both shoulders while the other moved up until her fingers buried into his hair and she gently pulling him down enough for a soft kiss to his cheek—
—He didn't want to hurt his best friend or to ruin a life-long friendship, but his entire body ached to return home. They'd argued for a few weeks and he'd always surrendered before, continuing the tour. But not this time. Even at the risk of their friendship, he needed to leave. Family comes first.
But while clearly disappointed, his best friend seemed to understand. The man offered him a toast (don't touch it, don't drink it, don't drink it) to show that there were no hard feelings. He accepted the shot glass (no, don't, no, no, don't drink) and the soft clink of glass followed his friend's words. And with that, he brought the glass to his mouth and (no, no, no) swallowed the tequila, relieved that their friendship remained intact.
His friend offered to walk him to the train station, a rather long distance at night across a strange city. But the man wanted to see him off, to do the right thing and prove that they were departing on good terms. They walked at a relaxed pace, the train ticket in his pocket with the departure time written reassured him that they could make it easily. They talked a bit and the casual feeling reminded him of their childhood, when everything seemed so simple and it was only the two of them with their music. He could almost ignore the way his stomach seemed unsettled and uncomfortable with guilt (with poison) and how he kept having to swallow.
As he caught sight of the train station, the discomfort abruptly spiked into pain. He doubled over in agony, something burning and sharp slicing into him. He felt like fire and knives were trying to rip him apart from the inside out. He grabbed at his midsection (it hurt, make it stop, make it stop), but there was nothing there hurting him.
His friend (no, no, no) placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke of food being to blame, taking the guitar case from him and freeing his hand to instinctively dig at the burning, sharp pain. His head pounded with an unsteady rhythm, his ears filled with his loud heartbeat and a dull roar. His fingers tingled strangely as he clenched the fabric of his clothes, but the pain overwhelmed everything else. It seemed to sweep over him in sickening waves as he struggled to get control over the sensation, gasping against the agony.
His vision blurred, the edges going dark. The burning and sharp pain kept growing worse, agonizingly intense. He fell to his knees as he lost his hold on his suitcase. And as the pain reached an unbearable state (make it stop, it hurts, it hurts so much, I want to go home, make it stop, stop, stop), he lost his weakening grip on consciousness—
—He couldn't tell what was real. He couldn't tell what was in the past. He couldn't tell what was happening in that moment. Everything kept getting mixed up.
But there was something real. Something more solid and real than him.
There was something other than those who were remembering him, pulling him back and not letting him disappear. Something different and closer—
—The rest of the family ran to the edge of the tower, no matter how little they could do as the boy (míjo, no, not him, please) plunged towards the ground far below. He couldn't even try moving, staring in horror as the man walked past without a hint of regret. He just lay there, holding himself up on his elbows and breathing shakily.
Chamaco couldn't be gone. That man (that murderer) couldn't have killed the boy (not míjo, not him, not my wonderful and talented boy) in front of him. It couldn't be real.
Flapping wings brought the bright and loyal alebrije into view with Chamaco (alive, still alive, still alive) on her back. Everyone crowded around at the boy slid off, wrapping him in relieved hugs. Seeing Chamaco safe (still alive, still alive and safe) left him feeling a little lighter, allowing him to focus on climbing unsteadily to his feet. It was harder than it should have been (too tired, aching, weak), but he managed as the alebrije stalked past.
As his wife hugged the boy, he tried to walk over (make sure Chamaco is safe, unharmed, real) and join them. He made it two steps before a cold and sharp pain (it hurt, no, no, it's worse, too soon) raced over him (hold on, not yet, a little longer), causing him to drop like a stone. Gasping weakly on his hands and knees, he could practically feel his strength pouring out of his body.
The boy ran to his side, frantically explaining that the foto was lost in the fall. He looked up and (too late anyway, too late) reassured the boy, but light flashed (pain, no, no, pain, feels like I'm breaking from the inside out, crumbling bones) across his body. He collapsed limply on the ground and desperately hoped (please stop, make it stop) for it to pass.
Chamaco carefully rolled him (tired, so tired, aching bones, too tired, weak) onto his back. The boy was scared for him. And another wave of familiar pain (coming apart inside, it hurts, hold on) washed over him before (going numb, too tired to feel properly, a kindness) fading once more. The boy spoke frantically, trying to figure out a way to save him (too late, no time left, too far gone), but his wife (mi alma) pointed out the rising sun as she knelt beside them.
He raised a shaking and weak hand to the boy's face (míjo, my precious boy, a surprise blessing for my last night) and noticed he could see Chamaco's skull through the fading skin. The boy was out of time (both out of time) and needed to leave immediately (save him, save Chamaco, don't let history repeat) or die.
Another sharp and cold flash (shattering inner pain, deep in my bones, spiking through the numbness) shook his body (hold on, almost) before dying down again. He let his hand slip down (miss the contact already, regret letting go) and his fingers wrapped around the cempazúchitl petal.
He was out of time. He would never see his daughter (never get to apologize, never get to tell his girl he loved her) and never make things right. All he could do was help Chamaco instead.
His weakening body shuddered (coming apart, hold on, a little longer) as another shimmer of light hit him. They were coming faster and faster. He didn't have much energy left. Talking or even keeping his eyes open (stay with them, don't let go yet) was a struggle. And when he tried to raise his hand with the petal, it shook and nearly fell back down.
She (mi amor) wrapped both of her hands (warm, comforting, gentle) around his own, supporting him. He caught a glimpse of her smiling (fragile, sad) at the boy, trying to reassure Chamaco that everything would be all right and that it was time to go home. Then his eyes fluttered shut (too tired, too weak, growing numb) as the boy grabbed his arm and shoulder desperately, pleading and frantic to stop it.
Yet another flash (no, a little longer, almost) flared across his body, but he focused on the boy (give Chamaco the blessing, save him). He tried to look at the boy, tried to assure the child. Please, just let Chamaco (míjo) do the one thing that he wished to accomplish more than anything else: go home. A flash (hold on, please, no) hit as he tried to smile, only seconds after the previous flare and barely after his fragile words, his eyes falling closed.
He could barely stay awake, but he felt and heard the moment the petal touched the boy and sent Chamaco home (safe, the boy was safe, I didn't fail him). He heard her sigh in relief and felt her hands pull back towards her lap.
But she didn't let go of his hand even as another strong wave (no pain, too far gone for that, but it should hurt) caused him to spasm weakly (hold on, for her, stay for her, mi amor). As it passed, it left only exhausted numbness in its wake. Even if he couldn't move and couldn't even open his eyes (growing quiet, dark, cold), he tried to focus on her hands holding his. Tried to… focus on… her…
A weak smile… was all he… could manage (so tired)… But maybe… it would be… enough…
A coldness wrapped around him (can't hold on, slipping, falling)…
He couldn't… feel her… or anything…
There was something there. Even as everything kept shifting and changing, kept making it impossible to know what was really happening, there was something constant.
A presence. Sometimes one unfamiliar and strange. But other times achingly familiar. Sometimes silent and sometimes speaking words he could barely hear and couldn't understand.
But no matter how chaotic, confusing, or increasingly painful it might be, the presence of someone was comforting. Like those remembering and drawing him back, it was a sign that he wasn't alone.
Not alone. Wanted. It felt nice.
It felt like home.
And he desperately wanted to go home.
While often abbreviated as D.C. when written on sheet music, "da capo" literally translates as "from the head" and means for the musician to go back to the beginning of the piece. No matter where on the page it is, D.C. indicates that you must go back to where the song started and play it again. It seemed thematically appropriate for a chapter with so many flashback pieces.
Also, congrats on "Coco" winning two Oscars: one for Best Animated Feature and one for "Remember Me" for Best Original Song. They deserved it.