Solo la cuchara sabe lo que hay en el fondo de la olla.

Para morir nacemos

Del plato a la boca, se puede caer la sopa.

Guajolote que se sale del corral, termina en mole.

Chapter 1: April 13, 1984

“Wetback? Hey, wetback!” A voice calls out, echoing in the alley, as footsteps draw closer. “You think you can hide from me?”

“Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t.” I whisper, hiding behind a large metal dumpster.

The footsteps stop.

“What’s this? You dropped your bag, chicken-shit.”

I wince as I hear him unzip my backpack and throw the contents on to the floor.

“Not much here.”

My shoulders flinch as the dumpster beside me clangs, where he has thrown my pack.

“You don’t need this.”

Pencils fly, zinging in front of me, clinking on the metal walls of the large bin between us. The sound of tearing paper. My palms cover my ears, my eyes well up, my body shakes.

“Who needs textbooks, right? You sure don’t.” He pauses, then laughs. “Yup. biology’s overrated.”

My textbook hits the dumpster’s edge in front of me, breaking in two. When it lands, I can see he has torn out half the pages.

My feet push hard against the ground, as if trying to force my body into the wall behind me, tears flowing. I press my hand against my mouth to keep from crying out.

Breathe. Breathe. 1, 2, 3…

“Oh yeah! What is this?!”

No. Please don’t. Not that, please.

“Holy shit, really… you keep a diary, like a girl.”

No. No. No.

“Oh! Even better. You write stories… like a girl.”

No. No. No.

“Let’s see.”

The sound of pages turning, then tearing. A leaf of paper falls to the ground.

“Boring.”

Another page turns.

“Is this guy supposed to be you? Ha!”

Another rip. He balls this one up and throws it over the dumpster, hitting me in the head.

“Oh, a bad guy…” He pauses and turns the page. “Oh, man.”

Another page turns.

“Oh man…”

Another page turns.

“You son of a bitch. Do you want to do this to me?” The voice says, then pounds on the dumpster wall. “You think you can get me to piss my pants, you little shit?”

“Please stop.” I say in a whimper.

Footsteps start toward me, and I shake.

From behind the dumpster, a red-faced Ron Grady steps in front of me, my creased journal dangling at the end of long, farm-honed arms, flexing beneath the sleeves of a Van Halen t-shirt. The wind ruffles his orange, blow-dried hair.

“I’m gonna pound the shit out of you.”

My arms fly up over my head, as he throws my journal at my face.

“What the hell you doing, boy?” An angry man’s voice echoes from behind the dumpster.

“Nothin’, Pa.”

“Get the hell over here.”

“Yes, sir,” Ron says toward the other voice. “You wait right here, wetback. We’re not finished.”

I hear the footsteps walk away. A slapping sound cracks from down the alley.

“I told you to stay put, you lousy no-good piece of shit.”

“Sorry, sir,” Ron says.

My eyes huge, I listen for his voice. Shaking, I look past the dumpster into the alley in their direction. Seeing nothing, I grab my bag, stuff what I can into it, and run through the alley, then across the street, hoping he doesn’t see me.

I run up Commercial Street, wiping my face, and head for the library. I want to put distance between Ron and I, just in case he slips away from that man, and comes looking for me.

When I reach the library, I hurry through the doors and head upstairs to hide in the fiction section.

I stare out the window, out of breath, scanning for that red face, hoping not to see him coming up the hill.

Concentrating on spotting Ron; I step back from the window, and into someone, then the sound of books hitting the ground.

“Sorry.” I say, still trying to catch my breath, still keeping a worried eye on the window.

“Cuidado, muchacho.” An old voice shakes me from my search, and I turn to it. An old man, dressed in a dark gray suit, smiles at me, a few teeth missing from his grin. His eyes, deeply set and dark, are smiling and kind. The hair on his head, sparse and disheveled. Wrinkles on his thin, dark skin flow like water, as his smile shifts and grows.

“Me puedes ayudar, por favor?” the old man says adjusting his tie, pointing at the books on the floor.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak…” I think it was Spanish, but I wasn’t sure.

“Oh. You don’t speak Spanish, young man?”

“No, sir, I don’t.” I say, my voice wavering.

“Well, you should remedy that,” he says taking a seat by the window. “Would you be so kind as to help me with these books? I seem to have chosen too many.”

I hesitate. My mind tries to make sense of him, of his presence in this library.

“You have had some trouble?” He points to his forearm as he motions at my arm with his eyes. “Are you all right, young man?”

Nodding my head, I bend down to help him with his books.

I read the titles as I stack them on a chair: Chronicle of a Death Foretold, Death of a Salesman, Death on the Nile, The Death of Ivan Ilych, Death Comes for the Archbishop, Appointment with Death, The Denial of Death, On Death and Dying, A Death in the Family. 

“Death,” I whisper.

“Yes?” The man says, pauses, then shakes his head.

“All your books have ‘Death’ in the title.”

“Death and I are old acquaintances.”

He smiles, his eyes scanning the shelves of books around him.

“Treasure troves.” He motions to the books on the large metal shelving. “Glimpses of the truth.” He turns and looks at me, studying me. “You have the heart of a writer. What truths are you looking for here today, eh?”

“Truths?” I ask, perplexed.

He smiles, his dull eyes looking younger.

“You are a seeker of truth,” he grins, one solitary tooth showing, “but you are lost, somewhere else, something heavy on your heart. Am I right?”

My face goes blank, and he winks at me, the skin covering his eyes folding into countless layers. He motions for me to sit next to him.

“It’s not this,” he grabs my arm and looks at the red scrape across it. His hands, ice cold, grip like a vise. “It is something that hurts deeper than this.”

The confusion on my face makes the old man turn serious.

“You will need to make a choice, Diego. Sometimes, you have to take a leap of faith, and tell fear to kiss your ass.” He chuckles.

My arm in his hand quakes, and he glances at it, then peers into my eyes.

“Death.” He says, his eyes squinting, studying me. “Death weighs heavily on your mind. I can feel it. It is all around you,” his remnant of a smile fading.

“I-How? How could you know that?” I respond as my eyes dart from bookshelf to bookshelf.

“Son, when you are as old as I am, you can see it, feel it, taste it in the air,” his brow furrows, eyes blinking slowly, like a cat. “You know, in our culture, death is just a part of living. We celebrate it, as we celebrate life.”

Who is this old man? How could he know what I’m going through? My teeth clench, and my jaw tightens.

“It hurts, I know, but in this life you only have a finite number of days to enjoy your memories, your truth, these are your treasures,” He says putting his hand on my shoulder. His touch is cold, but strangely reassuring.

“My mother…” I say, unthinking, regretting my slip.

The old man sighs, looks over his stack of books, then at me.

“When Death comes, he comes with a fearsome, bony grin, but in the pits of his eyes is a peace. Death is a friend, a helper, a fellow traveler who takes pride in aiding those in need,” he stops and puts his hand on my shoulder again. An icy wave runs from his grip, through my spine. He smiles. “Your mother will be taken care of, I assure you.” As he says this, I glance into his eyes, black and set deep into his face.

“You, Diego, have your own story to write.” He squeezes my shoulder, rises and walks away, waving his hand as he walks. “Susana’s story is at an end,” he says as he turns the corner.

“I never told him my mother’s name,” I whisper, looking down at the stack of books laying on the bench. “I never told him my name!”

“Hey!” I call out. “Hey, who are you?” I run to the end of the shelf. I run across the aisles. There’s no trace of him.

Chapter 2: April 13, 1984

It stared at me with its black eyes, beak parted as though mid caw. Its movements were not like a bird but of a person, watching me with intent, with a purpose. It didn’t squawk or cackle, it just observed.

I’m in a room. The light, unsteady and orange. Four earthen walls meet at the raw ceiling above me. A crypt, with no tomb, no place for a body, instead a table, large metal boxes, file cabinets, and words. Words I can’t make out, not English.

The bird sits on a desk. Slowly shuffling its feet, bowing its head as though pointing to something, a photo. I move closer to it, with no stride, no legs to carry me. On the desk is a single photo covered in dirt. The bird lays his beak on the photo, now unmoving as though a feathered statue, pointing to a young woman with dark wavy hair, a sad expression on her face. I have an uncontrollable urge to cry.

She stands in front of me, covered in dirt. Her face looks at me with concern and heavy regret. I am shaken with her gaze. She reaches out her arms; Trembling and yet something inside me wants to leap into her arms as though she is death itself and in her embrace I would find comfort, delivery. An escape from my troubles. Escape from Ron. Escape from what’s happening to my mother.

Her face loses its form. Like a candle, it melts. Her features falling away, revealing muscle and bone. She looks at her hands, her skin sagging off her fingers. Her eyes meet mine as she shakes her head. The skin on her hands disintegrates, bone reaching out. She’s trying to grab me. The concern, and eyes, liquify, slipping down, leaving only a dirty, gray skull. Filthy-wavy hair raising into the air, catching an unfelt wind. Can’t move. Can’t look away. My eyes won’t close. Mouth opens to scream, but nothing. Lungs take in a breath. Stomach pushes to force the sound out, but nothing. I struggle to tear myself away. Nearer and nearer she comes. My heart racing, beating hard, tearing itself out of my body. Her hand gripping at air in front of me. My mouth still working, but still no sound. Its hand wraps around my jaw and tightens. “Go away! Go away! Go away!” I shout in my head. Then she’s gone. Emptiness. Nothing. I’m alone.

“You need not fear,” a deep hollow voice, a man’s voice clothed in shadow, pulsing, turns out of the void and stands in front of me. An old man’s face with pale-gray skin materializes from the living darkness, his eyeballs black like the crows, looking through me. Deep rings formed around them, under them, setting his eyes further back than what seemed possible. His gaze is guilt and rest. Images flood my mind. My mother, on a gurney, tubes in her mouth and nose. Ron laughing at me from above, the taste of blood in my mouth. People staring at me, watching me, pointing at me as I walk on the sidewalk downtown. Then each memory disappears in a haze. Everything in me relaxes. The old man studies me.

“Be strong, fear not, for fear only leads to death.” He smiled, his eyes deep black pools, a world of death hiding behind them.

A pounding sound echos in the darkness.

I stare into his eyes and watch them get swallowed into his head. His skin dries and cracks. Dirty, tangled hair slithers over his forehead. Over his eyes. Over his smile. Two bony hands pull it apart. A brown-toothed grin, each tooth copper, metal. Its jaw drops. Two glowing red eyes stare back at me from inside. A set of red teeth sneer below them. 

“She waits for you,” they whisper.

I jump up in bed. My eyes darting, trying to focus. My sheets soaked in sweat.

Breathe. Breathe.

A figure stands in a corner of my room. I shake. Tears run down my face.

“Wait,” a deep voice rasps from the figure.

“Stop!” I scream, pressing my eyes closed tight, my fists to my ears.

Muffled pounding.

“Diego?” I hear far away.

I slowly open my eyes…nothing, it’s gone.

A knock on my door startles me.

“Diego, are you ok?” a familiar voice calls out.

Chapter 3: April 14, 1984  

“Are you all right, Diego?” Richard says, looking into the rear-view mirror at me, as Mrs. Landry turns to me from the passenger seat. Charlie, their six-year-old, sleeps on the floorboard behind her.

“I’m ok.” I turn away from Mrs. Landry’s gaze. “My mom isn’t getting better.”

“Man, I’m so sorry, Diego,” Richard says.

Richard Landry is a friendly man, with a modest smile, for “folks deserving of my hospitality” he once told me. Once you get into his circle of trust, his warmth, his strength, is earnestly given. A thin man, with a sadness around his eyes, and a fierce protective nature, always in one of his many brown velour, short-sleeve, button-up shirts and maroon corduroy pants, “my signature color, son,” he once said to me.

I raise my hand and run it through my hair.

“What’s that on your arm?” Richard says, his eyes wide in the rearview mirror.

I lower my arm, placing my hand over the bruise.

“I fell.”

“Arm? Diego?” Mrs. Landry says, worry on her brow.

“I fell yesterday, it’s fine,” I say, rubbing it to block the bruise from her vision.

Mrs. Landry reaches over and grabs my arm, pulling it up and away from my grip.

“Oh Lord! What is this?”

“Nothing. Just a little bruise. I fell yesterday on my way to the Library.”

Richard narrows his eyes in the mirror.

“Did you ice it? Boy, this looks awful!” Mrs. Landry says.

“No, it’s fine, doesn’t hurt at all.”

“We’re here for you, you know that right?” Richard says.

“I know.” I pause, hesitating, looking away from Richard’s eyes staring back from the mirror.

Mrs. Landry lets go of my arm, and screws up her face, her eyes trying to force me to tell her what happened.

“Really. I’m good.”

“M-hm” Mrs. Landry says, her eyes boring into me, expecting an answer.

I nod my head as I glance at Richard still measuring me up in the mirror.

“Have the doctor check that.” Mrs. Landry says.

“I will.”

“You look so tired, Diego.” Mrs. Landry says.

“I haven’t been sleeping much. I-I had a strange dream a few nights ago…” I pause, “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Mrs. Landry looks at her husband, her expression troubled. Richard glances at her, widens his eyes, and shakes his head.

“No, Maggie, don’t start that…”

“What was this dream about?” She asked.

“What did I just say?”

Mrs. Landry turns to her husband and shushes him, his head still shaking.

Mrs. Landry, Maggie Elizabeth Landry, the mother of Charlie and wife of Richard Charles Landry. She’s a tiny woman, very protective of her son. When they first moved into our building, she carried Charlie on her hip everywhere. In the laundry room, on her hip. Evening walk with her husband on her hip. In the kitchen cooking on her hip. Her wide eyes would stare at everyone in the neighborhood, as though preparing to defend her little one with every muscle in her 90-pound frame. I found out why later. They had a hard life in Louisiana. I wish people weren’t such assholes.

“It started with a crow.”

“Aw, Diego, don’t…”

“You sure it was a crow?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

“I believe so. It seemed like one, but it moved like it wasn’t a bird, like a person.”

“Lord have mercy,” she said to her husband, her hand rubbing her chest right below her clavicle. “What was it doing?”

“It was standing on a table… maybe a desk, in a dirt room. I remember the room looked like it was underground and was lit by a flickering light bulb.” Her face studied mine as I described the dream.

“Where I’m from, dreams are not for turning a blind eye. A crow in your dreams means one thing.” She paused and looked at her husband, shaking his head still. “That was a visit from Death… Mr. Death,” she said with great seriousness.

“Come on, Maggie, why d’you say that?” 

Mrs. Landry glances at her husband, then to me.

“I’m sorry Diego, but he ain’t evil or good, he just is. Sometimes he visits to prepare you for passing into the next world...”

“Honey, why you wanna scare the boy?” Richard says out loud. “Maggie… we are going to the hospital!” He whispers in an angry tone.

Mrs. Landry screws up her face and mouths “sorry” at Richard.

“I-I’ve never felt the way this dream made me feel. It wasn’t like anything I’ve experienced before.” I looked at her and paused. “Passing into the next world?”

“Oh man, Diego,” irritated, he hits the car horn with his fist, “you didn’t just walk right into that.”

A middle finger appears from the driver of the car ahead of us.

“Sorry,” he yells out, pursing his lips tight, still shaking his head. Mrs. Landry glares at him, then turns to me.

“What did he show you? On the table there was something, right?” Her southern accent getting stronger as we spoke.

“Yes,” I said, surprised. “A photo.”

“Of yourself?!” She blurted out wide eyed.

“No... no, it was of a woman,” I said, remembering her in my dreams, shivering.

“Your mom?” She says.

“Woman!” Richard says, elbowing her gently.

“Sorry,” she whispers at him.

“No. She had wavy hair, long, dark, and the photo was dirty. I’ve never seen her before.” Mrs. Landry looked confused, as though she didn’t understand what I was saying. “This woman’s photo became the woman, right in front of me, like she came out of the photo, and was trying to scare me, talk to me.”

“This’s not for…” She looks over at Richard with a nervous expression on her face, “preparing you for the next world. He usually shows you something about you, but this I don’t understand what it could be. You sure it wasn’t your momma?”

Richard sighs loudly.

I shook my head. “She kept looking at me like she wanted to grab me, like she had to.”

Richard glanced at his wife, the discussion frustrating him.

“Can you remember anything else?”

“That was not the weirdest... scariest part. She dissolved in front of me, into bones, and continued to grab at me.”

“Shit, boy!”

“Richard!” Mrs. Landry whisper-yells at her husband, trying not to wake Charlie. Staring forward, he shrugs his apology.

“She disappeared and an old man with shiny black marbles for eyes appeared, from the darkness, dressed in black.”

“Death…”

“Maggie!”

A shiver runs up my back. 

I didn’t give too much credence to this whole “Mr. Death,”-dreams-have-meaning stuff, but even remembering this dream made me uncomfortable.

A drop of sweat runs down my forehead. I’m reluctant to hear more, but Mrs. Landry continues.

“Did he show you something else? Did he give you something? Did he say anything?” She says, her eyes boring into mine. Her face a mix of fear and anticipation. It scared me a little.

“He said that I shouldn’t fear.”

Mrs. Landry’s eyes well up and widen. Her hand springs up and grips Richard’s shoulder, tight, and he flinches.

“He touched my head. His touch was cold then warm,” I glanced away from Mrs. Landry, out the window, then back at her. Mrs. Landry’s face ready to burst into tears.

“Then he smiled and said, ‘She’s waiting for you.’ And that was it.” Mrs. Landry’s face went from the point of tears to confusion.

“What did he show you?”

“Nothing. Richard knocking at my door woke me up for dinner.”

She looks at her husband as though he did something wrong; he shrugs his apology.

“I knew the dream was over. That was it.” I glance at Mrs. Landry and the back of Richard's head as he focuses on the road, his head now shaking only slightly. Mrs. Landry turns away from her husband and studies my face.

“Have you ever dreamed anything like this before?”

“No.”

“I don’t understand this dream. It was Mr. D…,” she glances at Richard, “but it wasn’t a message to prepare you or anyone for...” She turns to me. “It was a message, though.” Her face was screwing up in thought. “Diego, I don’t know what this means, but I can tell you that if, you-know-who said you shouldn’t be afraid, he meant it. Something is coming, and you should be strong and face your fears.” I read her concern on her face, “Be brave. Something’s coming for you.”

“Maggie, for cry’n out loud!”

“Daddy?”

“Richard, you woke Charlie!”

“We’re here anyways, woman.”

I love the Landrys. I love Richard. I love Charlie. I love Mrs. Landry. Her concern puts me on edge, but it was only a dream. They worry about me. Nothing’s coming, and the only thing that I may lose soon is Mom.

Chapter 4: April 14, 1984

“I’m sorry, son,” the doctor says as he tightens his grip on my shoulder. Richard’s strong hand clamps around my arm, Mrs. Landry walks out of the room with a sleeping Charlie in her arms. “She is comfortable, I promise, but the inevitable is coming, son. Nothing more we can do for her but wait.”

I am empty, I am nothing.

He paused and cleared his throat.

“As a doctor, I usually love my work, but not today, not now. This is never easy…,” he says clearing his throat. “She will not regain consciousness before… before her passing.”

I am empty. I am nothing.

“As a father of two boys, I hurt for you Diego,” The doctor said, and he sat me in a chair in the hallway, then sat next to me. “No one can say what she hears, what she understands. Let her know that you will fight on, that you will not give up. Give her that, give her your assurance that, no matter what, you will carry her memory with you for the rest of your long life, that you will share her story with your kids, your grandkids.”

I am empty. I am nothing.

“I will.” I say, not grasping the severity of his suggestion.

The Landrys stepped away. Richard says he needed to get a snack for Charlie and walked toward the elevator. They always have snacks in Mrs. Landry’s purse, but I say nothing. I need to speak to Mom alone.

As I walk in the room, a nurse removes the thin hospital blankets and another checks mom’s vitals on the machines.

“Mom?” I call to her.

My mother is lying in a hospital bed, her open eyes set deep into her face. Black rings under her eyes age her, far past her true age. Hair so thin her head looks smoother, more round than hairy. Her skin is pale green and paper thin. Veins have mapped out her face, her arms, her legs, old dark inked highways. Her mouth the lightest pink, lips cracked, delicate, a brittle parchment. We thought the chemotherapy was working, but all it did was wreck her body.

“Mom?”

My mother was always optimistic about our lives, about her dreams, about my future. She would always say, “Get good grades, go to college and get a good job.” Her expectation was that right out of college I would magically have my career all lined up. All her dreams would come true for me: president of a company, a big house, a beautiful, caring wife, the six kids she always wanted but never had.

“Son, what do you want in life,” she once asked me while we were reading in the living room together.

I shrugged my shoulders.

“It’s not something I think about.”

“You must want something. How about becoming a doctor?”

“I’ve told you I’m not too good around blood, Mom. How can I be a doctor, when blood makes me queasy?” I replied with a serious expression on my face.

“You had a bloody nose last week, and you handled that just fine.”

“Mom, that was my blood. I can’t stand other people’s blood.”

She looked at me up and down. “Maybe all good doctors have to learn to be around other people’s blood, Diego.”

“Drop it, Mom. Even if blood wasn’t a problem, we can’t afford what... eight years of schooling, not to mention getting into a good school for the doctorate.” I said with a serious face, but with a soft smile to let my mother down easily. Even if we had the money. Even if I had a full scholarship, I wouldn’t want to waste money trying to find out what I want to do with my life.

Why can’t I just know what I want to do with my life? Just an idea so that I can reassure my mom. Let her know that I have a plan… that I will be ok? I feel like I’m letting her down, and now that she...

Breathe. Breathe.1, 2, 3…

We had our entire lives ahead of us. She would see me walk at graduation, meet my first girlfriend and embarrass me by telling her all the silly things I did growing up. She would cry at my wedding, be there for her grandchildren, be there for it all. Now… I’m empty. I am nothing. She is dying. She will die.

“Son, we need to have a serious conversation.” My mother once said as she sat at the dining room table. Her hand reached out, asking me to sit. “I want to talk to you about something important. I hope that this is still a long way from now,” She looked into my eyes, “but in less than two years you will be out of school. You will begin your own life, without me, and you and I need to be clear with what my wishes are in case... in case something happens to me.” Her face serious.

“What do you mean?”

“Diego, you need to know what I want done if I were to die.”

“Mom, do we need to talk about this now?”

“Yes... yes, we should. No one knows when something bad will happen. It would be good for you to be prepared with… with what I want.” 

I couldn’t look at her. I didn’t want to imagine her dead. Who wants to think of their mother dead?

“Don’t bury me. Don’t put me in a coffin, don’t put me in the ground.”

“Mom, I don’t think we need…”

“Diego, listen. I want to be… burned. What do you call it?”

“Cremated?”

“Yes, cremated. I want you to cremate me. I don’t want a resting place. When we die, that body is no longer us, it’s just a container. I don’t want to be someplace where you have to come visit me. It won’t be me. Do you understand?”

“I... I.” What does one say to this?

My mother gently grabbed my chin and looked at me, trying to see if what she said stuck. As though she could see it by looking at my eyes.

“Son, you need not do anything. Remember my wishes, whatever happens. You don’t need to visit me, I will not be there anymore.”

Still holding my chin, her other hand points between my eyes.

“I will be here,” she points to my chest “and here. I will be with you wherever you go, my beautiful boy. Do you understand?” 

What can I say? What can I do? I nodded yes.

I can’t handle this right now.

The nurses place fresh linens on my mother then one opens the curtains. A ray of sunlight falls on my mother’s forearm, reflecting brightly on her skin, seeming more pale than it was before. The tubes in her mouth whooshing, and the instruments in her room beeping. They tuck in the blankets below the mattress and look over to me with a sympathetic smile. I nod back.

“Mom, I love you.”