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pengychan · 6 years ago

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[Coco] The Bedside Ghost, Ch. 10

Title: The Bedside Ghost Summary: The bell falls but, instead of waking up in the Land of the Dead, Ernesto de la Cruz finds himself with a broken spine - and an unwanted guest at his bedside who claims he can let him have the sweet release of death, if he gives back what he took from him… Characters: Ernesto de la Cruz, Coco Rivera, Héctor Rivera, Julio Rivera, Imelda Rivera. Rating: T Status: in progress [This is the fic’s tag for all chapters up.]

[Also on Ao3]

A/N: This fic got longer than expected, like... all of my stuff, really. But I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel - there will be another chapter after this one, and then a short epilogue. I think. Last time the "short epilogue" ended just shy of 8,500 words so you see my problem with word counts.

***

Imelda Rivera had wondered several times - usually in the middle of the night, when sleep wouldn’t come but her control on her own thoughts still slipped - what Héctor would look like after so many years.

She’d imagined him with some wrinkles around the eyes and mouth, like her own; with some gray in his hair, perhaps with a slightly bent back since he’d always been so ridiculously tall. Maybe he’d be wearing glasses, maybe he’d be missing a few teeth. Maybe he’d be bald, even. She’d conjured up so many images of what he may look like.

A skeleton still clad in discolored rags that had once been a charro hadn’t been one of them.

Formal identification, they called it, and it sounded like a joke. The dark eyes and long eyelashes she remembered were gone, leaving behind only empty sockets. The nose she’d so teased him about was gone, too, as was the skin that had always felt so warm to the touch, and she could find no trace of that goofy smile of his in the grinning skull on the table.

That was not her husband. That was simply what had been left behind.

The charro, or what was left of it, was the only thing Imelda could possibly recognize; good God, she remembered the day she’d bought it for him - how happy he’d been, how he’d picked her up and spun, almost sending them both tumbling in the process. It had been one of her last gifts to him, and now even that was thoroughly ruined, stained with earth - because her husband had been buried in a body bag without even the dignity of a cheap casket, into a grave that had never been graced by a single flower.

She would have wished for Ernesto de la Cruz to rot in Hell if she hadn’t known he already was - because he was going through hell, and the knowledge gave her at least some satisfaction. But not enough, never enough, to ward off the wave of grief that threatened to overcome her before that bare table, and those bare bones.

“Mamá?” Coco’s voice reached her as though from a great distance, and yet she was there, her arm linked with her own. She squeezed her hand, and Imelda squeezed it back. She focused on that contact, and found her voice.

“It is my husband. I recognize his clothes,” Imelda said, and turned to the man on her left, who had been standing there in silence after letting them inside the small room. “When can we take him home to give him a decent burial?”

“Very soon, señora. There will be some paperwork to fill for your to have the body, but with an accidental death there won’t be any issue.”

Accidental death. Imelda almost laughed, tasting bile in her throat, and felt Coco’s grip on her hand tightening. Part of her wanted to scream that nothing had been accidental, that her husband had been poisoned by the man all of Mexico loved for no good reason, taken from her and their daughter in the cruellest of ways, his life cut shorts for songs. She wanted it so much it almost hurt - but she did not, could not.

Imelda had never been anything less than practical. She had no proof to back up such accusations; there was no guarantee Ernesto de la Cruz would confess a thing to authorities. Perhaps traces of the poison could be found, if the body was examined… but that would mean delaying his return home even more, and she wouldn’t allow it. In a month’s time, by the next Día de los Muertos, her husband would be resting in a decent grave in Santa Cecilia - close to them, where he belonged, where they could lay their offerings.

Raising up a storm would make that much harder, put her family in the eye of said storm, and what for? What charges could be pressed against a man in de la Cruz’s state? She’d wished him a long life of pain, but she knew he wasn’t long for that world; if she had an autopsy performed on her husband’s poor remains, that beast would likely be dead before the results were even in. No, all that mattered now was that they knew the truth, and that Héctor could come home. Everything else could be dealt with later.

“Very well,” she said, her voice almost unnaturally calm to her own ears. “I will start with those forms now, then. Coco, you go back to the hotel.”

That caused her daughter, whose gaze had been fixed on her father’s remains, to recoil. “What? No, I want to stay with--”

“I’d rather you rest. For your baby, if nothing else,” Imelda added, glancing at her, and Coco stared back only for a moment before nodding. Whether it was for her baby or because she’d realized Imelda needed to go through the process on her own - that they both needed a hour or two alone with their own thoughts - she couldn’t tell.

Either way she did not argue, and it was a relief; it was time for Coco to rest. She had brought her all the way there to Héctor, after all. Now, ensuring that he returned home as soon as possible - that their family would truly be all together again - was Imelda’s responsibility and hers alone.

***

“Ah, señora Mart-- Rive-- er. Señora? There has been a delivery for you.”

“Huh?”

The clerk’s voice caused Coco to pause while walking past the front desk. The man turned and rummaged somewhere out of her line of sight before he put something down on the desk between them - a small parcel that looked a lot like it contained a book.

And she knew, immediately, what it had to be.

I don’t want it, was her first thought, and she almost said it. That accursed songbook was the reason why her father had been murdered, the reason why her mother had to fend for both of them on her own, the reason why not even a hour earlier they had found themselves staring down at a yellowed skeleton in a ruined charro, just dug up from a nameless pauper’s grave after twenty-six years. That little book and the songs in it had been the cause of everything bad that had happened to her family.

Except that it wasn’t so, and she knew it. It hadn’t been that songbook to take away her papá, nor the songs in it. It had been Ernesto de la Cruz, and him only; he had made the choice to put poison in that drink, to take those songs - their song! - and move on with his life as though her father had never even existed, too taken by his dreams of glory to spare a thought for the broken family left in Santa Cecilia.

I was so angry. It had been all we’d dreamed about since we were children, he’d said. Then you came along, and she happened, and suddenly it didn’t seem to matter anymore.

Trying to swallow her anger - that monster had said it like it had been their fault somehow; was that what he'd been telling himself? - Coco nodded stiffly and took the parcel. It had belonged to her father, their song was on it, and she had every right to take it back.

“Thank you,” she said mechanically, and went up to her room with quick steps, so that she could open it without anyone watching. She sat on the bed and, sure enough, there was the red songbook. She pulled it out, placed it on the bed and, for a few moments, she just stared at it. Seeing it wasn’t surprising; what did take her aback was realizing what was missing.

There was no note. The small parcel had contained her father’s songbook, and nothing else. The reason why he had died, sent to her by his murderer - who else would send it? - without a word, an apology, a plea.

Coco flipped through the pages, to check if anything had been tucked in it, but again she found nothing. Had it come with a note, she’d have crumpled it and thrown it away without reading, without a second thought; Ernesto must have known that. She’d made it clear that she could never forgive him, that no amount of begging would get that blessing out of her.

And he hadn’t asked again: he’d just sent her father’s songbook, with nothing to gain from it. She wondered how he’d gotten it back in the first place, and then chased the thought away. It was hers now, and nothing else mattered. Nothing concerning Ernesto de la Cruz was any of her business anymore; she pushed all thoughts of him away, picked up the phone at her bedside, and made a call to the inn in Santa Cecilia to leave a message for her family.

Once again she ached to speak to Julio and Victoria, but that would have to wait; they would know everything directly from her mouth. So she just told Paula that both her and her mother would be back within a few days, dodged her questions, and put down the phone before she could try asking more. Then, she knew, she was supposed to rest.

And yet she could not. Every time she closed her eyes she could only see her father’s remains, those empty sockets where his eyes had been; she would see the songbook as it had been in her dream, in Ernesto’s hand, dripping red.

He’s never coming home, Coco. Take this back.

She had the songbook now, but her father was gone and it was not enough.

Por favor. I can’t die if you don’t let me.

Her mother’s laughter and her tears as she talked about how she and her papá had fallen in love, how happy he’d been when she’d found out they were expecting her.

Héctor says I need your blessing.

All of those years ahead of them, all of the years they should have had, the new memories they would never get to make. Ernesto had taken so much from them, hurt them so deeply, and they’d done nothing to deserve that pain.

I beg of you.

That rat’s eyes as it lay in the glue trap, one moment before she’d turned and ran away. What had become of that poor beast? How much longer had it breathed before its heart had given out, or someone else had come to end it? How much suffering could she have spared it if she’d only… she wouldn’t have to kill this time, only a meaningless blessing, only words-

“You don’t deserve it,” Coco snapped, and her voice seemed to echo inside the empty room. She sat, tried to breathe in deeply, but there was something stuck halfway down her throat. With a sigh, she passed a hand over her face, and lowered her gaze back on the songbook. Then, slowly, her eyes shifted to the phone.

Let me know if… when you find him.

He didn’t deserve that, either. She owed him nothing, much less closure. Someone capable of killing his best friend since childhood - the one he’d splashed in the stream with, sung and played and stolen fruit with, set a rooster free in a church with because why not - was undeserving of even an ounce of mercy. That should seal the matter.

And still, it did not. He deserved no closure but she did, and she found herself reaching for the phone - her mind empty but for the thought of her father’s skull on that table, the dying rat in the glue trap so many years ago, the blood dripping down Ernesto’s face. She waited for almost a full minute and she was close to slamming the phone down and forgetting about it when there was a click, a familiar voice from the other end, and she knew it was too late.

“Griselda? It’s Coco,” she heard herself saying, her voice shaking just a little. If she was surprised to hear from her, it didn’t show.

“Good evening, dear. How are you holding up?” she asked, and even through the phone Coco could tell that she was very, very tired.

“I’m… well, all things considered,” she replied. “About… about what happened yesterday, I’m sorry you were caught in the middle.”

“It is all right. I understand.”

“I called to ask… I have received my father’s songbook.”

“El señor de la Cruz asked me to send it to you shortly after you left. He’ll be glad to know you received it. He feared you might leave the hotel before it could get to you.”

“There was no message with it.”

“He had nothing to say, I suppose.”

Of course not. What else could he say? “I see. Is he…?”

A sigh. “I don’t think he will pass the night.”

It didn’t surprise Coco at all. “I understand,” she murmured, not quite knowing how she should feel. Her father’s murderer was dying, but she found it gave her no satisfaction. Some measure of relief, perhaps, because he would soon be gone; she found she didn’t want him to keep suffering, despite everything.

And he had sent that songbook, knowing that she would never forgive him, asking for nothing. That one thing, and that thing only, perhaps he had done to give her closure.

“Or maybe he will,” Griselda was going on, and gave a bitter laugh. “It wouldn’t be the first time he defies all odds. For someone who wishes to die, he’s holding on to life like… like...”

Like he’s waiting for permission, Coco thought, suddenly feeling cold. She thought back, again, of the rat waiting - begging - for the fatal blow. Back then, as a little girl, she’d turned away and ran. Now she found she couldn’t do the same thing.

I can’t die if you don’t let me.

Then let him die. My father is gone from this world. He should be, too.

“Is he awake?”

“He drifts in and out of consciousness. He was awake a minute ago.”

“And can he understand what he’s told?” Coco asked, and found herself holding her breath as she waited for an answer.

“He’s quite confused, but… yes, he does. Most of the time.”

Well, Coco supposed that was as good as it would get. She nodded, even though she knew Griselda couldn’t see her. “I see. Can you... tell him that I called. That we have found my father’s body, and that we’ll be taking him home very soon. And...” Coco had to pause, and swallow a lump in her throat. Her eyes burned with tears she struggled not to shed, and she grasped the receiver more tightly.

Her papá’s clothes, reduced to rags. All those songs they would never sing together. All those memories they would never make.

“I can’t forgive him. I will never forgive him,” Coco finally said, her voice firmer. “But I want to forget him. If you think it will help, tell him that… that he has my blessing. To rest in peace.”

There was a silence at the other side of the line, long enough for Coco to wonder if the phone had stopped working, then Griselda spoke, her voice strained. “I will let him know,” she said, then, “God bless you, dear. I wish you all the best.”

Coco sniffled, reaching up to wipe her eyes. “Thank you,” she said, and put the phone down without adding anything else. As she folded her hands to keep them from shaking, Coco turned to the room’s window and drew in a deep breath.

The sun was setting, its last rays making it look as though the sky was bleeding. Coco knew, with utmost and illogical certainty, that Ernesto de la Cruz wouldn’t live to see it rise again.

It was a relief.

***

“Griselda! Thank God you’re back. He… I think he’s getting worse.”

Of course he was; he’d been getting worse by the minute since the previous day. He was showing all signs of septic shock; he was cold and clammy to the touch, he’d vomited all they’d tried to have him drink, and he seemed more confused than he’d ever been, his speech slurred. She had seen all of it several times before, as well as other even less pleasant symptoms, and it should have meant a quick death.

And still, Ernesto de la Cruz kept breathing. Painfully, in short gasps, but he breathed.

I can’t die if you don’t let me. Héctor said I need your blessing.

It was nonsense, of course; no one but the Almighty could decide when one’s time had come. Griselda believed that wholeheartedly, always had, always would. And yet… yet, perhaps being told about that blessing would give him some peace of mind. Perhaps it was his conscience that didn’t allow him to let go.

Telling him couldn’t hurt.

“I don’t know what else to do,” Inés was saying, on the verge of tears. She was a good carer, with a good heart, but not quite experience enough to deal with someone at death’s door. “He kept crying out for one Héctor, then for his mother, for la señora Rivera, for a blessing - he’s calmed down now, but he’s so cold…”

“I see, Inés. You can go.”

“No, I… I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“I prefer to be alone with him right now. I will call you if you’re needed, dear,” Griselda said, and Inés couldn’t quite hide her relief at her words. As she left quickly - away from the dying man on the bed, the smell of disinfectant, of infection, of death - Griselda let her gaze wander towards the small table to her right. Antibiotics, the syringes, the oxygen mask, the IV bag, a thermometer - all of it useless.

Fighting a lost battle to keep him alive is no longer a humane thing to do.

She stared at them for a long moment before turning her back to the table and sitting on the chair at his bedside. At that point there was one thing he needed, and one thing only. “Señor de la Cruz,” she called out, placing a hand on his forehead. His skin was mottled and so, so cold. “Can you hear me?”

He could; his eyes opened, and his dull gaze met her own, chest rising and falling in fast, shallow breaths. His nightshirt, and the sheets he lay on, were soaked with sweat.

“Can you understand me? Just blink if you can,” she said and, to her relief, he did. She smiled, and stroked his hair. “It was Coco, señor. At the phone. They have found her father’s body, and are about to bring him home.”

The look of pure relief that gained her was both comforting and painful to witness. He had to work his jaw before he spoke, his voice slurred. It sounded like it took him a terrible effort. “He’s… going home.”

“Sí, señor. He’s going home, and so are you,” Griselda said. “Coco received the songbook. She gave you her blessing to… to rest.”

The relieved look turned to suspicion, and something close to a tired, distant anger. Slowly, he shook his head. “Don’t… lie to me,” he gasped. “I’m not… I’m a cripple, I’m not… stupid.”

“Señor, I assure you--”

“She never… she would never… what I did--”

“She did not forgive you, no. But she had mercy on you.”

“L-liar,” he managed. Such an accusation would have made her bristle, normally, but not this time. There was such helplessness in his voice, such hopelessness, it felt as though something had grasped her heart and squeezed. Suddenly, nothing seemed as important as getting him to believe her.

“No. I swear to God, she did,” Griselda spoke up. She reached to run a hand through his hair, as she always did to soothe him, and spoke again while trying to keep her voice from breaking up. “I swear on Santa María, on all that's holy. You know me, señor, you know I would never swear in her name if weren’t true.”

For a few long moments, Ernesto de la Cruz stared at her as though he didn’t understand a single word that had left her mouth. Griselda was about to repeat herself when she finally saw comprehension - and hope . A frail hope, but hope nonetheless.

“She gave me... her blessing,” he repeated, wheezing, and she nodded.

“Yes. Tell him that he has my blessing to rest in peace, she said. Please, believe me. God be my witness, she did.”

He did believe her; she saw it in his gaze, in the relief on his face one moment before he nodded weakly. He let out a long breath, closed his eyes - then his features twisted and he burst crying, tears rolling down his temples and into his hair. It didn’t come as a surprise.

“Gracias,” he choked out amongst broken sobs. “Gracias, gracias, gracias …”

“I did nothing, señor,” Griselda said, but of course she knew it wasn’t her he was thanking. She turned away for a moment, glancing at the antibiotics again, and then back to him. He was too weak to even weep, his sobs already dying down to whimpers. She wiped his face, and spoke as gently as she could. “It’s all right, señor. You can rest. I’ll stay until it’s all over.”

She never knew whether Ernesto de la Cruz had heard those words: within moments his eyes were shut, and he’d sunk into unconsciousness… and she hoped, prayed, it would be for the last time. His body couldn’t take much more; his breathing stayed fast and rattling, his skin cold and clammy - but his forehead was smooth, his rest undisturbed. He didn’t cry out, didn’t weep, didn’t beg. It was a relief.

She knew she was supposed to check his heartbeat, his temperature, but what would be the point? He’d reached the end of the line, she could see it, and there was no reason to disturb him in his last hours, or even minutes, in that world. Her vision blurred with tears - it was always hard to watch a man die, even when she knew it was for the best - Griselda López cradled his head, closed her eyes, and prayed.

“Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia…”

***

“So it’s over huh? You did it. I knew you would.”

Héctor’s voice, his child voice, reached him through the darkness beneath his eyelids. Ernesto opened his eyes, vaguely aware of the fact someone was murmuring a prayer above him, over and over. So he wasn’t dead just yet, he thought, and looked up.

Young Héctor was looking down at him, head tilted on one side. Ernesto had to work his jaw before he spoke. “Where were you? I called for you. You left me alone.”

“I was here all the time,” the boy said, and shrugged. “You know it was you all along, right?” he added, “Me, the other two, and everything we said – it was all you. None of us is him.”

He did. Somehow, at the edge of the abyss, he knew. There was no surprise, like he’d always known. “I never… never needed to get him back home. I never needed to confess. I never needed any blessing,” he mumbled. Somewhere, in the same room and yet a world away, Griselda was still cradling his head and praying.

He couldn’t catch the words, all of his attention on Héctor, but he found the constant murmur soothing. It brought back a memory, very distant, of his mother sitting by his bed with a rosary in her hands - back when he’d been twelve and had almost died after a tree had fallen on him. Heavy things did have a tendency to fall on his head. He’d fully awakened only when he’d heard music - La Llorona, how eerily appropriate that would be now - and Héctor had been there in her place, as old as the apparition looked now, a guitar in his hands.

Above him, the boy who had never truly been him was rolling his eyes at his words. “No, no and no. You are thick, you know?” he huffed. “You did need to do all that because you believed you had to. Maybe you grew a conscience, or just wouldn’t leave unfinished business behind,” he added, and grinned. His grip on Ernesto’s hand tightened; he couldn’t feel or see it, but he knew it had. “It’s all done now. You moved Heaven and Earth, like you promised. You can go.”

Ernesto closed his eyes, and swallowed. When he opened them again, the Héctor looking at him was the man he’d murdered. He had the same smile and kind eyes he remembered.

“Lo siento,” he rasped, and the smile turned wistful.

“Save it for the real Héctor, amigo. Now go.”

Go where, though? Santa Cecilia? Somewhere else entirely? Would Héctor, the real Héctor, be there? What would he even say to him? What could he say?

Héctor, or what passed as him, shrugged. “How would I know, old friend? I’m just figment of your imagination. Would be nice if it were in Santa Cecilia, wouldn’t it? You had a good time there, it’s a shame you never knew how good it was until it was too late. Your bodies will be there, at least. Won’t get to return together as you left, but it’s the destination that matters.”

There was some comfort in that thought, but then again his body hardly mattered. That would be left behind, and he… what would happen to all that was him? Would he disappear as though he’d never been? Would he find himself facing fire and brimstone, or a purgatory? Was he really free, or was it the beginning of another sort of punishment?

Clearly aware of his fears, Héctor shrugged. “Well, there's only one way to find out. Remember when you watched trains pass you by? This is the same thing. No point in wondering. No point in asking people who have no clue, either. If you want to know where a train goes, you have to--”

“Seize my moment,” Ernesto murmured, and Héctor wrinkled his nose.

“I was thinking more something along the lines of ‘hop on’, really,” he said, and smiled faintly. “Come on, amigo. There is nothing to seize and you’ve been holding on long enough already. Just let go.”

Ernesto turned his gaze to the white ceiling above him. Griselda’s murmured prayers were barely audible, now, and he couldn’t even feel her touch on his head anymore.

“Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores…”

Maybe he was no longer conscious, after all. Maybe he had passed out, hopefully for the very last time. As he stared into that whiteness, cobwebs of darkness starting to cloud his vision, he heard a whistle. It could be one of the trains he and Héctor had raced like idiots as children, or the one billowing steam in a station they had never reached together. Maybe it had been the same train, who knew?

Where do you think that train goes?

Only one way to find out.

Ernesto de la Cruz drew in a deep breath, exhaled, and let go. Darkness rose up to cover him like-- beneath the bell -- a thick blanket, the voice praying above him faded and, for a time, there was only silence.

***

“... Ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte. Amén.”

For a few moments after the prayer ended, Griselda kept her eyes shut. She almost started it over, as she had several times already, but this time something stopped her - the peculiar heaviness in her arms, and silence.

She could no longer hear him breathing.

Slowly, Griselda opened her eyes and let go of his head, letting it rest back on the pillow. She stared down at his half-open eyes, glassy and distant, and she placed two fingers on the cold skin of his neck, looking for a pulse she already knew she wouldn’t find.

It was over.

Something dripped on his forehead to slide down his temple, and it was only then that she realized she’d been weeping. She quickly wiped her eyes with her sleeve, wiped his skin, and reached to close his eyes. He looked calm, now, as though sleeping. He looked at peace, at long last.

Lord, have mercy, she thought, bowing her head. Christ, have mercy.

Slowly, almost painfully - her knees ached, they truly did - Griselda stood and grasped the white sheets on the bed, pulling them up over the body like a shroud. She stood there for a moment, drawing in a deep breath, and crossed herself before turning to walk, slowly, out of the bedroom.

***

Francisco was good at his job.

Granted, it wasn’t the same job he’d had back when he was alive; the Land of the Dead offered very few chances of employment for an expert in skin diseases. He hadn’t minded too much; sure, waking up in a world where his specific set of skills was virtually useless had been sort of a bummer, but truth be told he’d begun getting bored of his job some time before his death. Now he had the perfect excuse to start over.

So he’d rolled up his sleeves, done some training, and joined the New Arrivals Support team earlier that year. He was good at dealing with people, which was a necessary skill in that line of work: a lot of people got very upset when they woke up dead, especially those who’d found themselves in the grave well before their twilight years.

And the one asleep before him, wearing a black nightshirt and little else - quite a contrast to the whiteness of his bones - was definitely one of them: his hair was still mostly black, with only some gray at the temples, and Francisco could tell by just looking at him that he may have been in his fifties at most. There was no telling whether he’d been sick or the victim of a sudden death; either way he would probably be stunned to find himself there, and upset.

Francisco knew it well: he’d been there, too, after dying of what he assumed had to be heart failure in his sleep. He’d opened his eyes to see not the familiar ceiling of his bedroom, but a skeleton smiling down at him. He’d screamed and tried to run off like a headless chicken… which he’d been rather embarrassed about afterwards, but good old Ignacio had taken no offense. It was common, he’d explained later over a drink, and far from the worst thing that could happen. Said worst - aside from children, who got specialist support - being new arrivals attempting to attack them in their panic, which was why there was always a second person behind the door’s room, within shouting distance and ready to intervene.

Francisco had never needed to call for help that far: the few times someone had tried to attack him, they had stopped as soon as their gazes had fallen on their own skeletal hands. From there on, taking their details and talking them through the procedure became surprisingly easy. Most of them were very cooperative once told that they would use their details to register their arrival, and look for any family they may have on that side of the bridge. So that day, as he sat on a folding chair in Room B-6 with the clipboard on his knees, waiting for the skeleton on the mattress to stir, Francisco wasn’t expecting anything unusual.

Much like everyone else, the new guy had appeared, unconscious, on the bed. There were several fixed points where the dead took form and awoke in the Land of the Dead, all of them concentrated in the same area. No one knew how they had come to be - they had always been there - but over the centuries they had built around them, so that the new arrivals would find themselves somewhere more comfortable than just on the bare ground.

Francisco had heard rumors that, before they had built the new place, there stood Aztec-era ruins - not a reassuring place for a modern man to awaken, so the decision had been made to replace them with modern buildings. A practical decision, but he’d have liked to see--

“Nnnh…”

Ah, finally, he was waking up. Francisco stood as soon as he saw the new arrival beginning stir, put on his most reassuring smile - that was really important - and got his pen ready on the clipboard. The man groaned again and then sat up, reaching up for his head. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at the wall at the foot of the bed, at the banner reading WELCOME TO THE LAND OF THE DEAD hanging from it. He blinked at it.

“What…?”

“Good morning, señor,” Francisco spoke in his most pleasant voice. He found that speaking lightly helped new arrivals feel less scared. “Welcome among us! My name is Francisco Benítez. Please, do not be alarmed. I am here to help you sort things out. They’re not kidding when they say that death and bureaucracy are the only things that are certain, but I’ll be happy to help with the latter!”

The man blinked at him a couple more times, clearly at a loss, but he didn’t panic and Francisco counted that as a success. He was about to add that he needed to ask his name so that his family could be found, but before he could the man recoiled as though struck by lighting, and tore his hand off his head to look at it. He stared down at it, incredulous, before clenching and unclenching it.

Francisco chuckled. “Yes, we all look like that. It feels odd at first, but you will get used to it. If you would like… a minute to…” he paused, and fell silent when he realized the new arrival wasn’t listening to him at all. He just stared at his hands, completely expressionless, and clenched them into fists again. Unclench. Clench. Unclench. Clench.

It was getting just a little unnerving, really.

“... Señor? Perhaps you’d like me to explain how things work. If you tell me your name--”

The man entirely ignored him, but he finally tore his gaze away from his skeletal hands to look down at his body. He reached to press his hands over his own chest, feeling the outline of the ribs beneath the nightshirt. Again, he said nothing.

“Oh, we do have clothes to let you borrow, señor - right there on that chair, see? The trousers and shirt should fit you just fine. As you can imagine, we get a lot of people coming in wearing nightclothes or hospital gowns or whatnot. Once we’re done with formalities, I’ll give you a few minutes to--” Francisco tried again, only to trail off when the newcomer suddenly lurched on his feet.

It was so abrupt that for a moment he thought he would attack him after all, and he almost cried out for backup, but it wasn’t needed. The man nearly toppled forward, steadied himself, and just… stood there, staring down at himself with his mouth hanging open. Francisco had seen his fair share of surprised reactions but that was… the oddest so far, really.

“Huh. Perhaps you would like me to give you a few minutes now to get dressed, and then… señor?” Francisco called out, frowning, when the guy took an unsteady step, then another and another, before he stilled again with a look on his face that was nothing short of incredulous. He looked down at his hands again, holding them in front of his face and then, finally, he broke the silence. By laughing. And laughing. And laughing.

It wasn’t even a pleasant sort of laugh; it was loud and more than a little unhinged, and if he’d hand any skin left Francisco would have gotten goosebumps from just listening. He took a step back, bringing up the clipboard in front of himself as though to shield himself; the man sounded completely loco, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d lunged on him.

But he did not. After a few moments he took staggering step forward, still laughing, and fell on his knees. The sound of kneecaps hitting the floor caused Francisco to wince - that had to sting - but the guy just cackled harder, like the bolt of pain had been absolutely hilarious. He wrapped his arms around his ribcage, bowed his head, and kept laughing as though no one else was there at all, until he his voice turned hoarse, until he was almost wheezing.

And then, only then, did his laughter turn into sobs.

***

“... And he just kept sobbing, and then he laughed again, I thought he would never stop! He was loco, I tell you. In the end Ignacio had to come in and managed to calm him down, but he refused to sit. Just kept standing and pacing through the whole thing, can you believe it?”

Francisco’s exasperated expression caused Mireia to laugh, taking the papers from his hand. “We don’t all react to death the same way, you know that. Let me see… oh, sepsis. That is an unpleasant way to go.”

“True, might have messed him up. Still, it was creepy,” Francisco muttered as she looked through the information he had collected.

“Huh. No family on this side?”

“He said he never had any. It didn’t quite sound right to me, but what do I know? We only had his word to go by. Maybe he had in-laws to hide from.”

Mireia shrugged. “Ah, well. He’s not the first and won’t be the last to come in without anyone. He’ll adapt. Maybe he even has an alebrije somewhere, that would help. Have you directed him to our resources for cases like his?”

“Of course! I gave him the booklet, but he didn’t even look at it. I told him I could call someone for him, but he didn’t listen to a word. He almost ran when I told him he could go. Ugh, I think I’ll take the rest of the day off. Unless a earthquake strikes, you’re covered.”

“Sounds like you earned it. See you tomorrow?”

“Same place, same time.”

As Francisco left the room, Mireia chuckled again - she sort of wished she’d gotten to see that piece of work herself - before she busied herself copying all the notes she’d been handed. With so little information given, it was a short job. Within a few minutes, a folder marked with the name of one Estéban García - date of death: 1 October 1947 - was filed away along with countless others, and her day went on.

Somewhere in the Land of the Dead, Ernesto de la Cruz - whose father had been called Estéban, and whose mother’s surname had been García - was kneeling in the middle of a street under the eyes of confused onlookers, holding four yapping alebrijes to his chest, crying and laughing at the same time.

And, not too far away, a man called Héctor Rivera was working - for the twenty-fifth year in a row - on a cunning, absolutely-fail-proof-I-guarantee scheme to return home.

***

“Mamá! Mamá!”

Victoria’s voice rose up over the train’s whistle, so piercing that Julio thought his left ear would never work properly again, and he found he couldn’t even begin to care. Watching his daughter run through all other passengers getting off the train and to her mother, watching Coco pick her up and pepper her face with kisses - it was worth a partial loss of hearing.

“Oh, cielita, mamá has missed you so much! I have brought you a present from Mexico City,” Coco was saying as Julio approached. When she looked up at him, her expression grew even brighter. Julio would have loved nothing more than holding her, but he could see the tiredness beneath the smile, so he took Victoria in his arms and kissed her forehead instead.

“Welcome home,” he murmured against her skin, and Coco tilted up her head to give him a peck on the lips.

“It’s good to be back,” she said. “I have… oh God, there is so much we need to tell you. We couldn’t say anything to Paula, she would have told the whole town before you got word.”

Julio could easily imagine that. Paula had been talking a lot lately, all right… but not about them. “I heard he died,” he said instead, very quietly. The death of famous musician Ernesto de la Cruz - who hadn’t visited Santa Cecilia in many years, but had been born there - was all most of the town had been talking about for the past few days, with most wondering if his body would be laid to rest there and, if so, what sort of grand burial should he be given.

An unreadable expression crossed Coco’s features, and he thought he could see something harsh in her eyes that wasn’t like her at all, there one moment and gone the next. “He did,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically dull.

“Did he die with his eyes open or closed?” Victoria inquired, causing Coco to laugh a bit.

“Oh, I really don’t know. I wasn’t there. I--”

“A man who knew him visited,” Victoria cut her off, shifting in her father’s arms. “He said he was his manager. He used a lot of big words. Said he wanted to talk about rights and songs.”

That caused Coco to recoil, eyes widening. “What? Here? What did he do? Is everything alright? Is everyone--”

“We’re all fine,” Julio said quickly, a pang of concern at her clear alarm. He’d worked out that apparently Ernesto de la Cruz had taken credit for songs written by Coco’s father - Armando Abascal had been very vague on other details - and that had sounded… odd, but nothing that worrying. “He was looking for you and mamá Imelda. He meant to stay and wait for you, but once word came of de la Cruz’s death, he left a business card for you to get in touch and went back to-- wait. Where is mamá Imelda? I didn’t see her--”

“Here.”

“Gah!”

“Abuelita!”

As Victoria squirmed to pass from Julio’s arms into her grandmother’s, he recovered from his surprise - only to be surprised once more when he glanced behind his mother in law and saw two men carrying… Julio blinked, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him.

“Mamá Imelda! I… is that…?”

Imelda didn’t seem to even hear his question: she just took Victoria in her arms, kissed her forehead, and turned to glance at the casket. It was made of dark, polished wood; Julio was vaguely aware of several people’s gazes on them, of Coco’s hand grasping his own. Mamá Imelda seemed to pay absolutely no mind at the curious looks they were getting - but, when she spoke to Victoria, her voice was loud enough for all to hear.

“It has taken more than expected,” she said, “but your abuelo has come home.”

***

[Back to Chapter 9]

[On to Chapter 11]

#pixar coco #ernesto de la cruz #imelda rivera #hector rivera #coco #julio rivera #victoria rivera #bedside ghost

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