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Back Dead of Winter Save as PDF
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While I had indulged my guilt with drink, Elena had spent the last day at his bedside, praying the rosary, updating him on neighbors, reading articles from the local Spanish-language newspaper and sleeping curled up in a bedside chair. The nursing staff had given up on trying to persuade her to leave after visiting hours, choosing rather to make her as comfortable as possible with a blanket, a pillow and, when needed, fresh coffee and cookies from the nurses’ station.

Dr. Gupta had admonished her to go home, or at least to her daughter’s house in Ferndale, to get a full night’s rest. He had assured her the swelling of Tomás’s brain had gone down and all indications pointed to normal functioning. News that he had mistakenly hoped would alleviate at least some of her worries.

In my cowardice, I could not bring myself to face Elena. I slunk past her in the Henry Ford Hospital lobby, where she was waiting for her daughter to drive her home after the evening’s visit. I sat next to the machine keeping track of Tomás’s heartbeat and blood oxygen and read him a poem by Antonio Machado.

As I was finishing the poem, Tomás’s daughter, Manolita, called me. She had just dropped her mother home.

“You know she’s angry with you,” Lita said. “Jesus, God in heaven—I’m mad at you! But—in my heart, Octavio, I know none of this is your fault. It’s just the way you two idiots are made up.”

“Thanks for those kind words.”

“No, I mean it,” she said. “You and Papa are just a couple of stupid little boys who never stopped wanting to be gauchos. Riding dusty trails in your floppy cowboy hats and leather chaps, dispensing open-range justice that no tin star could. And to be honest, I’ve always kinda admired that—that spirit—in Papa. And you. Listen. Momma’s madder at herself than you, Octavio. She’s mad at herself for decades of having bought into the myth of you and Papa’s invincible machismo. It’s why we love you. And why we fear for you.” In the background, I heard Tomás’s granddaughter, June, ask if momma was talking to abuelo. “You wanna make things right, Octavio?” Lita said.

“Yeah,” I heard myself say quietly. “More than anything.”

“Then get off your ass and make things right.”

She disconnected.

After a moment, I stood, squeezed Tomás’s hand and whispered, “No te mueras, hijo de puta. Te amo y te necesito.”

Then I left.