Anson Stevens-Bollen
Author Kirstin Valdez Quade tells SFR she’ll always think of Santa Fe as home. Though she lives in San Francisco and teaches creative writing at Stanford University, Quade’s extended family remains in her birthplace of Northern New Mexico. So do many of the characters in her books, which capture the region’s specific beauty and challenges with authenticity and depth.
In her novel The Five Wounds, published by Norton in 2021, Quade presents the story of a multigenerational family living under one roof—with all their tangled relationships and struggles regarding the future. As this year’s guest judge for SFR’s annual fiction contest, she chose its theme: “For the Family.”
“I have always been drawn, both as a reader and a writer, to stories about families,” she says. “Every single family is unique. Every family is so complicated. Every single person in that family has a specific experience of what that family is. You know, my little brother’s sense of our family is, in some cases, wildly different from my own sense of our family, and I love that about it. Our family members know each other so well—nobody knows quite so well how to hurt us—and there can be injuries that go back many generations that play out. And often within families, that’s where we get comfort and solace.”
These dynamics also play out in fictionalized stories of families, such as the contest winners that follow, whose universal truths make compelling reading.
First-place winner “The Sound Barrier,” by Daniel Huantes Jr., takes place over a very short span of time, just a few hours at a birthday party for a 14-year-old. “I was so moved by this boy’s longing to hold his own around the family table,” Quade says, noting she especially enjoyed how Huantes reveals the boy’s deafness, not as a quick fact but as a slow seeping through the beginning of the story.
“Clean,” the second-place winning story from Marit Andrews, homes in on a woman who has recently given birth. “I just thought this story captured so beautifully this woman in this specific time in her life and the immediate aftermath of having a baby,” Quade says. “She’s sleep-deprived and a bit of the story is hallucinatory. There’s this fragmentation that she feels of herself, Amelia, and then this new self, Mom, and her deep isolation in this new role.”
For his third-place winning story “Her Job,” Richard Ryan presents a nurse as the narrator, taking readers just outside the family circle for a different perspective. “She’s seeing these families at their most vulnerable and she’s also getting the tiniest sliver of a sense of the families of the patient she cares for,” says Quade.
Next week: Read the winning essays from this year’s nonfiction category on the theme of “Multispecies Entanglements.” SFR has invited all winning authors for a public reception and reading at 6 pm, Nov. 29 at Teatro Paraguas, 3205 Calle Marie.
FIRST
The Sound Barrier
By Daniel Huantes Jr
Without sitting on his hands, Greg didn’t know what to do with them. He sat at the circular dining room table, and watched his mother in the kitchen. She rushed from station to station, stirring and sipping and salting as she moved. It was chaos to Greg, but clear to his mother, who never stopped for more than a moment. Greg understood why his dad had jumped at the opportunity to run out for last-minute groceries. Within the kitchen, his mother readied herself for war.
The tamales were stockpiled, the avocado was mashed, the limes were cut, ready to be put on nearly everything. Greg winced as he saw the salsa hit the sarten, the fumes from the chiles lifting up into the air, a step away from chemical warfare. Greg knew from experience how unforgiving that gas could be. Greg once tried to explain the feeling to a friend, but the closest thing his friend could conjure was the smell of frying pickles. Greg felt something was lost in the transition from pepper to pickle. A burning something was lost.
Food was a double-edged sword. Every time his family gathered, they asked for seconds. Every time they left, they asked for antacids.
Greg turned from the kitchen towards his little cousins as they tiptoed across the living room. The oldest of the troupe at nine years old, Diego was demonstrating to the youngest, Noah, how to sneak polvorones out of the kitchen, and eat them, hiding behind the couch. Sitting on the couch, seven-year-old Brandon ate his cookies in the open, brave or unaware. Greg couldn’t quite see what Diego was saying, but imagined it was sage advice regarding obfuscating the number of cookies the adults thought they had eaten. Each sugary pebble was a boulder to the small brown hands that gripped them. Greg remembered his seniority, stood up from the circular dinner table, marched towards the counter, grabbed a cookie, and only made a small effort to hide it. He turned his back on the kitchen, leaning on the white counter, and started to eat.
Greg felt a sharp tap on his shoulder and jumped, coughing up sugar. He turned around to see his mom repeating his name.
“What?” Greg signed.
“I’ve been waving my arms at you, but you don’t listen!” His mom signed, punching the air. Greg was silent, unsure if a response was what she wanted.
“Go change, your Welo and Wela are almost here. Everyone else won’t be too far behind.” She turned him around and pushed him out of the dining room to go get ready.
***
Greg walked in, and was startled to see the house full. How had they all gotten there so quickly? His mother turned and motioned for him to come.
Greg’s heart beat hard as he approached his family. He could barely lip read Spanish, and he knew he needed to practice more. All at once, three of his uncles detached themselves from the family, and pushed away from the small circular table they sat around. A wall of grins formed, and Greg felt his heart rate ease. The three of them standing together looked more like larger versions of Diego, Noah, and Brandon, equally as likely to be caught stealing polvorones.
“What’s up!” Tony signed, speaking along in English.
“Nothing much,” Greg replied, shrugging, but unable to hide his smile. Carlos shoved Tony aside, attempting to sign himself, but before Greg could figure what he meant, Tony had rammed back into him. The pair struggled shoulder to shoulder, trying to knock the other down.
Gustavo stepped in front, and signed in front of his stomach so only Greg could see.
“My brothers are idiots.”
Greg laughed.
“Happy Birthday, Greg. We’re all glad to see you.”
With Gustavo now tasked with making the final decision as to the winner of the shoving match, Greg walked past them, and began greeting his family.
Greg smiled at his Tio Lalo, who slapped him on the back, shaking his hand, and pulling him into the crowd of his relatives. Each tight-packed family member pulled him around the table, with a mixture of signing, smiling, and words which Greg tried his best to discern. Tia Alma gave him a hug, her squat frame previously hidden behind his two towering cousins, Edgar and Marcello, who both nodded at Greg. Edgar and Marcello knew how to sign, but at 16, they were far too cool to say anything, signed or otherwise. The top of Tia Alma’s grey hair barely reached to his chest, but her grip was strong, and she held him tight before letting go. She said something to Greg in Spanish, but he couldn’t make out any of it. Greg smiled and nodded.
“Si, gracias,” he mouthed. He turned, unsure if Alma could read lips.
Greg continued around the table, until arriving in front of his grandparents. He looked down at his Wela, even shorter than her sister Alma. His Wela beamed and stood up, wrapping Greg in a soft hug. He felt warm, and decided he had to try to say something. He pulled back from the hug, and cleared his throat.
“Temo,” he spoke slowly. Greg looked at his grandmother, hoping that this was good enough. Her head tilted, confused, and she turned to Greg’s mother.
Shit, Greg thought. He cleared his throat and tried to ignore the stubborn toad sitting in his mouth.
“Te. Amo,” Greg spoke. He was embarrassed but felt his second attempt was good. His Wela turned back to him, beaming again. Greg could see as her lips began to fly as she spoke in a rapid stream of Spanish. He tried to make out a word or a phrase on her slight lips before giving up. He hugged her again, and when his Wela finally let go, Greg saw her turn to him clearly and mouth “Te amo.” Greg felt warm.
Greg turned to his Welo, now beaming himself, sturdy in his black leather cowboy boots. Greg reached out to shake his hand but his Welo knocked it away, laughing and embracing him, before pulling back and signing.
“Happy birthday, Mijo. Congratulations, you are 14.”
Greg smiled wide and mouthed “Thank you,” stunned. When had Welo learned to sign? Greg turned towards his grinning mother.
“He took a class last week!” His mother signed with exuberance, her pride in her own father radiating out from her. As if on cue, Greg’s own father emerged from the garage holding two tall cold blue cans of beer. He feigned handing one to Greg, laughing hard at his joke, before handing the can to his grandfather.
Greg sat down, and was handed a plate. The fiesta had begun.
***
The family ate together. Some nodded and smiled, engaged in a half dozen disjointed conversations, stopping and starting between bites of food. Some told stories about work or kids, and some called to pass along more salsa, rice, or tortillas. Carlos waved from across the table, catching Greg’s eye.
“My diet is RUINED!” Carlos signed, laughing before piling more tamales onto his plate.
“Blown to pieces,” Greg signed back, grinning.
Greg noticed the small side conversations peter out, absorbed into the escalating conversation between Tony and Gustavo. Tony leaned forward and brushed off Gustavo, directing his words towards the rest of the family. His Wela rolled her eyes, but was engaged like the rest of them. Greg tried to watch his lips, but Tony spoke in quick Spanish, turning to engage the whole table.
Tony’s story became more animated, as he began acting out scenes. Tony began making faces, imitating some character in the story. Greg chuckled at the theatrics as he tried to make out what the story was about, staring at Tony hoping a familiar phrase would give him something to anchor on to.
So far, Greg had caught that the story was about Gustavo, more from body language than anything. Trying to find the thread, Greg became caught in the energy. He laughed, watching Gustavo’s head in his hands as Tony aired his dirty laundry. He saw a few clues. He saw “hermano” delivered with rolled eyes, and laughed harder as he caught Gustavo growing red at “novia” and “bailar.” Although many of the words missed him, Greg laughed harder and harder, his whole family doing the same, wrapped up in Tony’s energy.
Greg watched as his Welo wheezed, trying to catch his breath, and the family laughed even harder in response to the story. Greg wiped tears out of his eyes as he tried to return his focus to the story. Tony slowed the story almost to a halt, and from the climax, with Gustavo as red as the pozole in front of him, Greg caught a single word: “chones.”
The family exploded, and Greg started to wheeze just as his grandfather had a moment ago. Together, the family laughed themselves out of breath, only catching it long enough to begin to laugh again. Like crashing waves that kept returning to knock them down, the family seemed stuck. Gasping for air, Greg looked around the table, and even Gustavo had begun laughing, wiping tears from his eyes. Tony sat back, proud of himself.
The table finally began to quiet down, when everybody turned at once. Following their faces, Greg looked towards his father facing him. Smilling, making clear deliberate signs, and articulating each syllable, his father addressed Greg only.
“Did you understand that?” His father asked. The family turned to Greg, who wished he could disappear. He felt like a squashed bug. For a moment, he had been a part of the family, for a moment they laughed together. Now they all knew that he wasn’t one of them. Greg was on the outside looking in.
“Some,” Greg signed back. He felt the eyes of his family boring into him, and he knew he too was turning bright red. He was dying. There was no coming back. Greg looked down, and hoped his father would have the decency to leave him to die in peace.
His father began to sign, and Greg got ready for everyone to watch as the story was explained again in excruciating detail. But with his father only a few words in, Gustavo stood up to get the attention of the table.
“Now!” He signed and spoke, winking at Greg. “I think if it’s all the same with y’all, it’s my turn to tell the REAL story.”
Levity returned to the table, and Greg began to laugh. They were a unit once again.
Daniel Huantes Jr. grew up in San Antonio, Texas with his parents and two siblings. He spent summers in south Texas with his extended family. He graduated from Fort Hays State University in Hays, KS. He currently lives in Santa Fe, and he loves drinking coffee.
Anson Stevens-Bollen
SECOND
Clean
By Marit Andrews
Amelia was a clean person. Not a clean enough person. Clean. When Amelia’s best friend visited for the first time after Amelia gave birth, she suggested Amelia go to therapy because of how clean her house was. And not so much suggested, as sat down with Amelia on the couch and helped her find a therapist right then and there and followed up the next day to make sure Amelia scheduled her first session.
And yet here she was, staring at the filth coating her washing machine.
When you see something wrong, fix it right away; otherwise, you’ll get used to it and stop seeing it. Amelia and Jake received this piece of advice more than once when they first became homeowners. But when they moved in Amelia was six months pregnant, and though the days felt long the months went fast. And if Amelia and Jake thought they received unsolicited advice when they became homeowners, that was nothing compared to becoming parents—complete strangers now felt comfortable giving Amelia breastfeeding tips in the grocery store. As time slid by and boundaries blurred their family went from Amelia and Jake to Amelia and Jake and Nathanial, and on three months of no sleep, Amelia also became Amelia and Mom, and to be honest, sometimes just Mom.
And now Mom stood peering at what was probably, no, most definitely was, mold growing on her washing machine that had been there for God knows how long. What else have I missed, Amelia wondered, as she tried and failed to pry the laundry disposal dish loose.
Amelia tiptoed past the nursery where she had just put Nate down for his morning nap and into the kitchen. She knelt carefully on the Saltillo tile to grab the bleach spray and paper towels from under the sink. For a moment, she felt the bottom go, and wanted to remain there, like a boulder, on her knees for the rest of her life, but then she remembered, and began to ground herself. She didn’t do this anymore. She was in her kitchen, in her home with her family. She was safe. She began to get up again.
Jake crept up behind her, sliding his hands around her waist as Amelia rose from the kitchen floor. Amelia tensed, then relaxed as she spun up and saw him.
“Hey,” she smiled.
“Hey yourself,” he said, gently brushing her hair across her forehead, then resting his fist on her cheek bone as he looked at her. “Did he throw up again?” he asked, motioning to the cleaning supplies.
Amelia shook her head and placed the bleach spray and paper towels on the counter to explain, but Jake was already on his phone, pulling up a song. Jake offered his upturned palm to her. Amelia couldn’t help but smile as Jake motioned to the middle of the kitchen. Even though it was ten o’clock in the morning and she hadn’t showered yet and she was so tired she had to fight spontaneously falling asleep anytime she wasn’t moving, Amelia took his hand. Jake lightly kissed the edge of her smile and tilted her chin towards him, finally kissing her in earnest. Then, holding her hips as he led her towards him, he began to sing with exuberance, “I’ve been waiting for a girl like Amelia to come into my life,” and as he shook his hips, Amelia laughed. She loved him like she loved sleep.
When the song ended, Jake gave her a hug. “I’m headed out,” he said into Amelia’s back as she stiffened. Then they had that same old fight all couples who have been together long enough have, the one that repeats over and over, with different variations. Theirs was about abandonment and pain and fear but also about not having enough time together to have fun. So, Amelia placed her hands on his shoulder and reached up to brush away a bit of unidentifiable blackness almost indistinguishable from his messy black hair, and let go.
“See you,” she said, flicking the bits, fingernail against thumb, away like stickiness.
She went to the kitchen sink and turned it on. Amelia listened to the rush of the water and did the dishes like a prayer until she felt her breathing slow, as she had done so many times before, as her mother had done, as her grandmother had done, as so many women before her. Amelia turned off the faucet and reached for the dish towel before she saw it.
Slime. It was covered in slime. All of it. The dish towel, the fridge, the counter, the floor. A thick ooze slowly blackening her house from somewhere beyond her sight. The entire east side of her house was covered in goo that seemed to deepen and expand even as she stood there breathing, almost as it breathed with her. Amelia reached out to touch it, as if a diver on a coral reef, finally snapping back enough to pull away before she touched the stuff, and then she realized—her fingers were already stained.
A pool of black gathered in the bed of her thumb like ink. As she tried to scrape it out the blackness only seemed to deepen. This can’t be happening, Amelia thought. She straightened her back and then exhaled, shaking it out through her wrists. This isn’t happening, she decided. She was exhausted and just needed to go upstairs and lie down.
Never mind her thumb. It wasn’t real. She had pushed herself too far, again. Amelia turned off the light and surveyed her bedroom, dim and cool in the midmorning breeze. She smoothed her blue comforter before climbing on top of it, imagining herself leaving a streak of black across the cloth. What a pickle, she thought, clenching her teeth. She closed her eyes and tried to focus on the wind in the trees, then the silence behind the sound. But even when the sound stopped, all she saw was blackness, pressing in from both sides.
It followed her. It didn’t matter that she was a thousand miles away and twenty years past. Here she was again, being driven down dark country roads, that tiny bit of road ahead illuminated by dirty headlights, black on both sides. Woods thick with deer. The slip of the car with every turn and the flip in her stomach trying to count the drinks in his breath. Another barn party. As if she needed another barn party. There was this one, so many years ago, at the third location of the night after one barn and one bonfire, standing around drinking Natty Ice in someone’s empty living room, the furniture all pushed to one side of the trailer so no one could dance, and their friend Britney said, “If I ever get married and get out I’m never seeing any of you assholes again,” and that was the end. Amelia never wanted to go to another barn party. Even though there was only one lamp on in the entire trailer, she saw. It was dirty. Filthy, really, the kind of filth that comes from decades of smoking inside, letting pets wet the carpet, leaving dishes to rot and working three jobs to wake up to nothing in the bank. But we’re best friends and we love each other, she wanted to say to Britney. But she also saw it.
“I think you should slow down,” Amelia said, “It’s mating season.” Jake looked over at her in exacerbation, and Amelia knew she should have practiced more, how to say slow down you’ve been drinking nicely, but she’d been drinking, too. As if she needed another barn party. But in the same way that she felt the deer deep in the trees just waiting to leap out in front of their headlights, the release of the airbags and the shattering of glass in her hair, she felt it, she was from here.
She opened her eyes. October here meant saying goodbye I love you, not look out for deer. She sighed with relief. But when she sat up, she saw it, the black on her comforter was still there.
Some things were black and white. It was wrong to drink and drive. She knew this. She knew that 1998 Felitti et al. article on the relationship of childhood abuse and household dysfunction to many of the leading causes of death in adults, and she knew that “Persons who had experienced four or more categories of childhood exposure, compared to those who had experienced none, had 4- to 12-fold increased health risks for alcoholism, drug abuse, depression, and suicide attempt,” etcetera. She knew it was not surprising they had started drinking young, one need only sample the growing body of research on intergenerational trauma and substance abuse. And what about choices? Why had they never gotten behind the wheel after drinking again after they moved? Could we use the change in housing conditions to explain the decrease in self-administration of alcohol and associated related risky behaviors, see the seminal 1978 Alexander et. al “The effect of housing and gender on morphine self-administration in rats,” or, vis-à-vis, how 95% of Vietnam veterans who became addicted to heroin while fighting oversees did not use heroin when they returned to the United States, i.e. 2010′s Robins et al. “Vietnam Veterans Three Years after Vietnam: How Our Study Changed Our View of Heroin?” Should we now use this body of research to examine the larger concepts of choice and free will, and the impetus of this digression, i.e. moral absolutism?
Stop it, Amelia. You don’t do this anymore.
Mom gathered the bed clothes and carried them downstairs to the laundry room. She ran the sink, let it run warm, and began to lather and work at the muck, using her thumbs to rub the cloth in circles.
The black on her thumb was still there.
I miss you Britney, she thought, suddenly on the verge of tears. She didn’t even remember the last time she saw her. She hadn’t known it would be the last time, of course. It wasn’t any different, just any other day. Who knows why she and Jake got to walk away?
She kept rubbing. More soap didn’t seem to help anything. The stain kept oozing a bottomless ink, and try as she might she could not stop it. It kept coming. And then, just as she began to let herself cry, she saw it. The black ran with the white suds down the drain, not chiaroscuro, but grey. The grey. Not black and white at all. Grey.
Amelia took the stained sheets and threw them into the washing machine with the appropriate amount of eco-friendly laundry detergent, set the machine to the appropriate setting, and walked away.
Clean enough.
Marit Andrews is passionate about educational equity, green chile cheese fries with carnitas, poetry, dogs and nature. She lives in Santa Fe with her wonderful family and (probably) a friendly ghost.
Anson Stevens-Bollen
THIRD
Her Job
By Richard Ryan
He was called “Big Pops” by his family. They called him this because Kimmy, one of his five granddaughters, called him “Grande Papa” after hearing it in a Tejano rap song when she was four. The old picture of her sitting on a big black boom box eating a pickle listening to the song is taped on the refrigerator door in her kitchen. Today Pops’ family is a clan of eighteen Santa Feans.
It’s Thursday evening. He was put in ICU two days ago when he could no longer breathe on his own. Covid caught him at eighty-four. He was in good shape and fully vaccinated. He was the tenth resident to be infected at his assisted living facility. This had been his home since his wife of fifty-five years died of a heart attack one year ago. The facility made it through the first wave without any cases. The second wave was different.
Tourists coming to town not wearing masks infected several wait staff at a local restaurant. The sister of one of these young workers was the head of customer relations at Pops’ facility. She encountered every resident there before she had any symptoms of the virus, much less knew she had it. As Bonnie sits at home today with a fever and chills, she is crushed that she might have infected any of her “geezers,” as she lovingly calls them. She knows they love her too. There is nothing she can do except get better.
This story is common now that tourists have returned. A young worker becomes infected with the virus from a tourist. The worker returns to their home where many times three generations live together. As with Bonnie, the young will likely survive; the old usually are not so lucky. The Covid storm is raging again despite efforts by the mayor and governor. This evening the daughters are home with their families and feeling lucky that their father has a hospital bed.
At the ICU this evening it is not going well for Pops. His nurse on duty is Ruby Rae Greene. She has been in his room several times already this shift. She had quickly taken a liking to the old man. He introduced himself as “Big Pops” the first time they spoke. His labored breathing as he extended his wrinkled splotched hand could not hide his smile and gentleness. He reminded her of her father who now lived with her, her husband and their two kids. Much like this old man was to his daughters, her own “pops” was a gift in her life.
She is currently staying with another nurse who has a place near the Santa Fe hospital. She lives in constant fear of infecting her family even though she is seldom around them. She is, however, around virus-stricken people ten hours a day seven days a week now. Each day that goes by adds to the weight of missing her family.
She closes the door softly as she looks at Pops’ dimming eyes and graying face. He is flying solo now. His daughters have been strongly encouraged to stay home because of the Covid threat at the hospital. She imagines they are having dinner with their families. Her mind drifts into a tired abstract sadness. She closes her eyes and says a short prayer. At this point she is not sure who she is praying to.
As her eyes open, she switches back to nurse mode. Pops has a strained look on his face. He weakly raises the arm without the IV and motions to her. He wants her to take the respirator tube out. He motions to his phone on the bed stand. She wonders if he can even talk.
With a heavy heart she slips out of the room. The thirty-five steps from this room to the nurses’ station is so familiar. She lets them know that she thinks another patient is going. She lowers her head. “I can’t let him be by himself.” This is the seventh person she has made the decision to be with when they die, to be the replacement for their absent family, to bear the weight of their loss. She is almost numb to it now. She will have to decide what to tell them about their loved-one’s last moments.
She wonders whether assuming this role will affect her in the future. Absolution is a priest’s job. She doubts if she can really help. It seems arrogant to think so. Lately this thought haunts her when she is trying to get to sleep. Ruby did not seek it as part of her job. She has heard stories of overworked nurses being overwhelmed, losing focus, and making mistakes. She doesn’t want to be one of those stories. “Enough thinking. Do your job.”
She returns to the room and shuts the door deliberately. She leans over Pops and shows him his cell phone. “You know the drill. Let’s take the tube out.” He nods. His face is gray. His eyes are dimming. After the tube is out, she raises the bed slightly. He is barely sitting and already having trouble breathing. Many patients describe the feeling as trying to breathe with a large boulder on their chest. She sits on the side of the bed and pats his arm. He weakly smiles and pats her hand. She wants to cry but doesn’t. She needs to support him now. That is the choice she made.
She hopes she will do it right. Thousands of nurses do this every day. Again, she thinks, “Do your job. What matters most is that the patient is not alone.” She thinks of the widow who told her right before she died that she had disavowed God after going to church for over sixty years, praying for others and doing their cooking and cleaning. She had fostered four kids to very successful lives. The widow was furious that God would take her without the last comfort of her kids. “I deserve better than this,” she protested. Ruby never told the woman’s children about this last thing she said.
The last beams from the setting sun are making their way through the slim high rectangular window to Pops’ left. They are absorbed by the dull white wall to his right. The room smells stale. Ruby smiles under her mask, even though she knows Pops can’t see it. “Who do you want to call?” Pops makes eye contact. He whispers Kyler. As Ruby is finding the number, Pops says with his eyes closed, “I will see my wife soon.” She ignores the comment, calls Kyler’s number, then puts it on speaker. No answer. When voicemail kicks in her heart sinks. She holds the phone up to his mouth telling him he will have to leave a message. She can’t imagine the way he must feel knowing that he probably will never get to speak to this daughter again. Kyler’s greeting seems to last forever.
He holds her hand with the phone in it up to his mouth. He starts, “Kyler my special young one.” His eyes are staring at the wall blankly, “Kyler, I am going. Remember, your exuberance for life always made me feel young. I love you so much for that. I know you will take care of your family.” His voice trails off and he drops his head back.
Ruby disconnects his phone. She wonders what Kyler will be feeling when she gets the message. She realizes what Pops wants to do now and hopes that he will be able to call all three daughters.
She remembers his middle daughter’s name. “You want to call Lucinda?” He nods and tries to smile. He points to the bottle of water again. She holds it to his mouth as he struggles to get his lips around the bottle opening. He pushes it up to take a swallow. She smiles at him, “Sometimes it’s hard to get enough water.” She has seen many patients struggle just to have a simple last drink of water.
She can tell he is thinking about what he wants to say to the next daughter. She finds her number in his contact log. She is relieved when she picks-up. Lucinda immediately says, “Pops.” He cradles Ruby’s hand holding the phone one more time, “I’m glad I caught you. Luc, I will be going. You are my gift. You hold this family together. I love you so much.” He begins to cough. Ruby moves the phone away from his mouth.
She tells Lucinda they have to go. She makes a snap decision before she disconnects. She knows that every second matters now for Pops. “Tell Gloria that her Big Pops loves her.” She pauses, takes a breath, and says, “If he doesn’t call her, it’s because he can’t. I am sorry. We have to go.”
Pops is gasping for air and holding his chest. Ruby says, “I need to put the tube back in.” She squeezes his hand. He can barely shake his head to refuse. He points to his phone for one last call. Does she let him expire trying to call his last daughter, or force him to keep struggling to live on the respirator when he does not want to? She knows that this decision, for this man, is the most important decision she makes today.
He sighs. His eyes close. He clutches her hand. As life leaves his body he says, “It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Please tell Gloria I love…” At that instant Ruby knows that she will be the last person that this man will ever see on this earth. She feels a tug on her hand as Pops’ eyes close. It is familiar. Several of the patients she had been with when they died did this.
Compartmentalizing her sadness again, she wonders why the gentle tug from some and nothing from others. As she puts Pop’s now lifeless hand under the rumpled white bed sheet, she wonders if he was trying to take her with him. She stops on her way out of the room to look back at him. She is drained, again, but smiling. She likes the notion that maybe he was trying to take her with him because he went to a good place, and she did such a good job helping him get there.
Richard Ryan is a former resident of Santa Fe who currently resides in Charlottesville, Virginia. “The richness of the people and the cultures, combined with its unique beauty,” he writes, “still make northern New Mexico a wonderful place to remember and embellish.”
