We tumbled over each other in the colors and passion that are the Spanish language with tearful apologies and heartfelt declarations of love and forgiveness without condition. At one point, through tears of the pain, hope that family members feel when in full embrace of each other’s faults and failings, Elena and I laughed, apologizing to Tatina for speaking rapid-fire Spanish.

“Está bien,” she said with a slight shrug. That’s okay.

In our luminescent moment of reunion, Elena and I had forgotten Tatina spoke fluent Spanish. And Norwegian. And German, French, Italian and Arabic.

Elena’s phone, sunk deep in a pocket of the robe, began ringing and vibrating.

Our hearts stopped. She dug the phone out from the deep well of the robe’s pocket and, with a trembling hand, said, “Hello?”

The hospital.

After a few seconds, she began weeping.

Jesus, this can’t be, I thought. It just can’t—

Overwhelmed and shaking, Elena handed the phone to me.

“Hello?” I said.

“Octavio?” Tomás said. “Jesus, where’d Elena go?”

“I think she’s busy weeping tears of joy and thanking Baby Jesus right now,” I said holding back my own tears. “I have to say—I’m pretty happy to hear your voice, too, old man.”

“Yeah, well, I hurt like a sonuvabitch,” Tomás said, “but that’s something I can live with. Being dead ain’t something I could live with, you know?”

“I hear ya, mi compadre.”

“Hey, listen,” Tomás said, “I could eat the ass out of a galloping stallion! All they got here is a prefabricated turd floating in some kind of brown sauce and fuckin’ green Jell-O. You think you could get me some tacos or tortillas? Both! Get me both! And for some reason I got a taste for Doritos. The ranch dressing kind. I fuckin’ hate Doritos, but can you bring me a bag? Not the small bag! The big bag!”

Someone in the background (a nurse?) cautioned him that visiting hours were over and if he wanted something to eat, it would have to be “the brown turd and the green Jell-O.”

I promised I’d stop by first thing fully loaded with tacos, tortillas and a big bag of Doritos.

“Somebody conked me on the head and shot me in the back, Octavio,” Tomás said in a low growl. “And that somebody’s gotta pay, comprendes?”

“Sí,” I said. “Understood, mi amigo.”

Then I handed the phone back to Elena, who was cradled in Tatina’s arms, interrupting her fifth Hail Mary in thanks for Tomás’s return.

Neither Tatina nor I wanted Elena to be alone. I offered to take her to her daughter’s house. Or she could stay with Tatina and me, I said. Elena declined, saying that she could breathe again, and having her breath and faith back, she wanted only the bed she shared with her husband.

“His scent is on the pillows,” she said.