#people ridicule him for being childish or a bum when in all reality

[erikatsu]

im so sad over itto wtf

[kazenoshun]

The 8 O’Clock Song: A Coco fanfic

Summary: Coco AU -  It's been 10 years since Imelda Rivera was abandoned by her no-good husband and she banished music from her life. She's content to keep away from music for the rest of her life, but a chance encounter during a trip to Mexico City may turn that resolution on its head.

A/N:  I have made an attempt to include some Spanish (mostly names) in this fic to mimic the style of the film, but I make no claim to being fluent in the language, so if you spot any problems, please let me know and I'll do my best to fix them.

Also,  I'd like to thank @faceheightknifefight​ and another friend (who does not have a Tumblr account) for their help in editing this fic. They're awesome!

FF.net, AO3, DA

The streets of Mexico City were full of noise, smoke, and far too many people, and Imelda Rivera could hardly wait to get home to her family in small, quiet Santa Cecilia. She’d never been fond of the big city. If she’d had her way, she would already be on the train back home, arriving in time to wish her daughter, Coco, goodnight before bed, and no doubt scold her twin brothers, Oscar and Felipe for some mishap or other. Unfortunately, she hadn’t gotten her way all day.

She’d gotten up before dawn to catch a train to the city, in order to view a new shipment of leather, place her order, and discuss the possibility of buying a new machine for the shop. She was against the idea herself, but her brothers were convinced it would improve the quality, and quantity, of Rivera shoes so she’d agreed to at least gather some information. The salesman she’d met had yammered on long enough to make Imelda seriously consider not purchasing the new machine out of sheer spite. His poorly disguised distaste for women in the shoemaking profession had merely been the final nail in the coffin. Having thoroughly wasted her morning and the better part of her afternoon, she finally arrived at the tanner’s only to learn that the shipment of leather had been delayed and wouldn’t be available until the following morning. Had such a day occurred when Imelda was just beginning her career in shoemaking, she might have broken down crying. Which wasn’t to say that she didn’t want to cry now, but she hadn’t allowed herself the luxury of weeping over her problems since she started, and she wasn’t about to begin now.

If she could survive Coco’s childhood as a single parent, she could survive one day of setbacks.

Still, she did allow herself a small huff and a frown as she entered La Caléndula, the sleepy little restaurant the innkeeper had recommended for dinner. Not terribly charming of her, she knew, but she didn’t particularly care to be charming right now - especially knowing many men tended to view charm as an invitation. All she wanted was to order her dinner, eat, and return to the inn to close out her terrible day.

The man behind the bar was an older gentleman with more gray than black in his hair, in the few places it still grew, and a moustache that seemed to cover the entire lower half of his face. He took her order with quiet efficiency, and, after hearing he’d been recommended by the innkeeper, directed her to a small table in the corner where she would be able to eat in peace.

Imelda let out a sigh as she sank into her chair and off her feet. Between the salesman who couldn’t be bothered to offer a chair during his presentation, and walking what seemed to be half-way across the city to the tanner, her feet ached. She wore good shoes, of course. She’d made them herself. But even the best shoes couldn’t alway prevent the sort of ache that accompanied a day on one’s feet. As the ache in her feet faded, she found herself thinking of home and family. They would be sitting down to dinner themselves by now, possibly cooked by one of the twins, but more likely by Coco. The girl would be 14 soon, only a year away from her quinceañera, and was growing more self-sufficient by the day.

Needing something to take her mind off her long day, Imelda turned her thoughts to potential birthday gifts for Coco, a far more palatable idea than lost orders or snobby salesmen. A new pair of shoes was a given, of course, but perhaps it was time Coco had a new dress as well. She’d nearly outgrown her last Sunday dress. Should the new dress be pink, though? Or perhaps blue? Imelda could turn the unintended stay in the city into a chance to look for fabric and findings. Yes, that would be most productive, and save her a second trip. She would start looking in the morning.

Her concentration was broken by the sound of someone tuning a guitar.

Imelda’s eyes snapped open, though she wasn’t sure when she’d closed them, and she glared at the table with enough ferocity she almost felt it should crack under the pressure. Of course someone would be playing music here. It was a perfectly terrible ending to her perfectly terrible day. She ground her teeth and clenched her hands into fists to override the childish urge to stick her fingers in her ears. She had some dignity, after all.

It had been nearly 10 years. Nearly 10 years she’d gone since banning music from her life. 10 years of being laughed at, of enduring the mariachi following her around the market betting on who would get her to break, of scolding Coco again and again each time she caught her daughter singing or dancing. 10 long years of hating him, her no-good bum of a husband who’d left her alone with a child to raise and never come back. He’d chosen music over them, over her, so she would let him have it all.

Her eyes sought out the source of the sound unbidden, whether from morbid curiosity or to know who to avoid when she left, she wasn’t sure. When the server arrived with her food, she would pay and leave. She hated wasting money, but she couldn’t stand to listen to the guitar even one minute longer than she had to. There was a small stage along the wall opposite the bar, but it was empty. The night’s performer must have been preparing off-stage. The other restaurant patrons were unfazed by the guitar as they enjoyed their food and drinks, several of them conversing quietly together. All of them ignorant of the burning fury inside Imelda. The guitar tuning morphed into a proper song, a very familiar song, but the stage remained empty.

Imelda nearly sprang from her seat and marched out the door; good manners and fact she hadn’t paid yet aside, she didn’t want to stay and hear the song butchered like it always was. Like the mariachi back home always did, even though they knew the way it was supposed to be played, the way it had been played before he allowed it to be butchered after walking out of their lives. She redoubled her efforts to spot the musician, determined to stay as far away as possible when she left, only to freeze when she finally spotted him.

Him, her no-good husband, Héctor, sitting on a stool in the corner across hers holding a banged-up guitar in his arms, playing Poco Loco with a blank look on his face.

The plate of food being set down in front of her startled her badly enough that she jumped.

“Perdón, señora,” the server -not the bartender, but maybe his son? She didn’t have the focus to puzzle it out- said. He followed where she had been staring and grinned. “I see you’ve spotted José.”

“José?” She could only parrot the name, too shocked to turn and look again. Perhaps she’d been mistaken and the man only looked similar to Héctor from a distance. It had been a very long time since she last saw him, after all.

The server nodded. “That’s what we all call him around here, since no one knows his proper name, not even him.”

Imelda couldn’t even parrot this time as she relented and looked again. It was definitely Héctor over there, although she couldn’t recall ever seeing his face so empty. He wasn’t even smiling.

“He comes in here and plays from time to time,” the server continued, oblivious. “Doesn’t bother anyone, and the music’s good, so Tío lets him do it and even pays him a little if sales are up.”

Imelda finally found her voice. “How… Why doesn’t he know his own name?” The Héctor she’d known, or at least thought she’d known, had a ridiculously good memory and was always using it to his advantage.

The server sighed and leaned against the empty chair on the other side of the table. “I couldn’t tell you exactly what caused it, but José doesn’t remember anything from his past, or where he’s from. Whatever happened couldn’t have been pretty, though. A couple of drunks found him, back before I started working for Tío, somewhere around 10 years ago. Someone had tried to bury him in a shallow grave just outside of town. The drunks took him to the hospital, but I guess it took a while before he woke up. And when he did, he couldn’t remember a thing. Not his name, not his age, not even where he grew up.”

Imelda opened her mouth and closed it again. None of what the server was saying made sense.

“Tío says he thinks there must’ve been a fight. He says one of the doctors at the hospital thinks José was poisoned. And José didn’t have any travel papers or identification on him when the drunks found him, but he still had money in his pocket. I heard the police found a suitcase dumped in a ditch, but all the stuff inside was trashed and there was no name on the case.” The server sighed and shook his head. “I just want to know who would get into a fight with José. The man’s harmless.” He sniggered. “Well, unless you mention the song.”

Imelda turned back to the server and made a face. “The song?” This really was all too much to take in at once, and she was almost convinced she’d fallen asleep into a dream except for her aching feet still anchoring her firmly to reality.

The server nodded. “Sí. You know that fellow, Ernesto de la Cruz, who’s been making waves in music?”

Far better than I want to, Imelda thought. It had been Ernesto who had set out on the stupid tour with Héctor, and then returned nearly a year later to tell her she’d been abandoned. She tried to recall when Ernesto said they’d split, and found she couldn’t help but wonder if Ernesto had told her the complete truth. He’d been against her marriage to Héctor from the beginning, after all.

“Well,” the server continued, once again oblivious to Imelda’s inner turmoil. “If you so much as mention de la Cruz’s biggest hit--” he dropped his voice to a whisper “--Remember Me, in José’s hearing, he goes absolutely mad. Old señor Víctor had to hold him back from mauling a musician who dared suggest playing it. Didn’t play it, mind you, just suggested playing, and José went nuts. Señor Víctor’s practically a bear, and he was struggling to hold onto José that night. But, if you don’t mention the song, José’s the gentlest soul you’ll ever meet.”

That, at least, was more in line with the Héctor Imelda remembered.

The sound of Poco Loco continued to drift about the restaurant, and Imelda couldn’t decide if she wanted to scream or cry. “Nearly 10 years and he hasn’t been able to remember anything?” she finally asked. She did her best to keep her voice even.

The server shrugged, looking at her uneasily. “Nothing specific,” he said carefully. “Occasionally he’ll say or do something to make you think he almost had a memory, but then it’ll be gone before he can latch onto it. There’s definitely something there, but it’s almost like-- like he’d stuck on the other side of the door. A few vague ideas get through, his issue with the song, for one. He’ll drink anything you put in front of him, unless it’s tequíla. Put tequíla in front of him and he starts getting all antsy and saying he needs to go home. I asked where home was once, thought he might’ve remembered something. I swear he looked like he was about to cry, then he just kept saying he didn’t know, over and over, until he left for the night.”

Imelda felt some small part of her heart that she’d been ignoring for years clench in her chest. “That sounds terrible,” she managed. She tried to imagine what it would be like, if she somehow forgot home, forgot Coco, except for the faintest ideas. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

The server nodded. “Tio and I didn’t see him again for three days. He came back covered in dirt. Apparently, he went out to the place the drunks found him and partially buried himself to try and bring back memories. It didn’t work. Tio let him clean up in the guest room upstairs, and made him stay here a few days to recover. I got yelled at for getting him into that state to begin with.”

“Ay! Diego! Stop pestering the lady,” the bartender, who’d come out from behind the bar, called.

Diego grinned and stood up straight, nodding to Imelda. “Perdón again, señora, for chatting your ear off. It’s been a while since we’ve had a new-comer so sympathetic to José’s plight.” He pulled out a handkerchief and offered it to her.

Imelda looked at him, confused.

“You’re weeping, señora,” Diego told her gently. He placed the kerchief on the table and walked away.

Imelda sat, unmoving, for a long minute, until the last notes of Poco Loco faded away and a new song started. Slowly, she raised a hand to her face and wiped half-heartedly at the tears that were indeed flowing down her cheeks. It’s shock, she thought, feeling oddly detached from her body. Shock was the only explanation she could think of for why she was still in her seat and not half-way back to the inn. Shock, and the fact she hadn’t paid yet. She’d been too distracted to pay before Diego walked away. Shaking herself, she grabbed her glass of water and took a gulp, trying to shift her brain back into motion but only succeeding in sending herself into a coughing fit when the last of it went down wrong. She fished her own kerchief out of her pocket and pressed it to her mouth to muffle the coughs and try to curb the tears now streaming down her face as she fought to breathe.

When she could breathe again, and had wiped her face clean, she stared down at her plate. She felt… empty. She’d always assumed her rage would be explosive if she ever saw Héctor again. And she’d certainly been furious when she first spotted him, ready to march out of the restaurant without even acknowledging his presence. But now…

It was as though listening to Diego’s tale had drained the rage right out of her. She couldn’t say she was happy, per se, or even sad. More than anything, she was confused. And hungry, her growling stomach reminded her. The food she’d ordered smelled delicious, and she wasn’t in the habit of letting good food go to waste. Besides, leaving without eating would gain her exactly the attention she would rather avoid. With that thought in mind, Imelda made herself begin to eat.

The food was undoubtedly good, but she barely tasted it. It felt like such a strange thing, that she’d banned music for so long and yet it quickly faded to the back of her awareness. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend she was at a bar back home a decade prior, waiting for Héctor to finish for the evening so they could return to their little house together.

Perhaps it was because, for the first time in a very long time, the songs were being played as she’d known them - no gaudy embellishments or implied wink and nudge from the musician. Just a simple, sincere guitar. Although Héctor wasn’t singing along, which was a bit odd, but she could only puzzle out one thing at a time.

Héctor’s letters had stopped five months or so after he left. At first she’d thought he’d absentmindedly forgotten to send the next letter, which happened on occasion. Then she’d guessed it had been lost in the mail, it wouldn’t have been the first time. But when one, and then two months passed with no word, she started to worry that something had happened. If she’d been on her own, she would have gone searching for him. But Coco had been not-quite four, and needed food and a roof over her head, so Imelda had stayed put and started to learn how to make shoes.

It had been another five months before she ran into Ernesto in the plaza and demanded to know where her husband was.

Ernesto had handed her a letter and Héctor’s wedding ring, said they’d been left behind when he and Héctor split several months prior, and left her standing there gaping in the middle of the plaza. All he’d told her about Héctor’s whereabouts was that he’d headed north to try and make a name for himself. He’d vanished into the crowd before she could ask anything else and hadn’t reappeared in Santa Cecilia since.

In the present, Imelda allowed herself another glance in Héctor’s direction.

His hair was even more unkempt than usual, and peppered with gray. Prematurely, she mused, as he was a year younger than her and only 31. He looked darker than she remembered, as though he’d somehow managed to find a way to stay out under the sun even more than he had in their youth. A multitude of lines and creases stretched across his face, and his eyes… Imelda had to close her own eyes and look away.

His eyes were the same warm brown they’d always been, but they seemed unnaturally empty of life. As though Héctor were no more than an oversized puppet.

His clothes -from what she had seen, she couldn’t look at those eyes again just yet- were starting to fray. He wasn’t wearing the suit she’d made him. Rather, a plain shirt and trousers that were too short for him, with a jacket that was starting to come apart at the shoulders. And he’d worn a hole through the side of his left shoe. He certainly didn’t look like a man who’d set out to find his fortune.

She couldn’t help but wonder at the timeline she was presented with. Between what Ernesto had told her years ago, and Diego’s account just now, it couldn’t have been more than a couple months from Héctor and Ernesto splitting to Héctor being found in a grave. But why he’d been back in the city so soon, when Ernesto had been so insistent that he’d traveled north, was something she couldn’t puzzle out.

And then there was Diego’s account of Héctor’s reaction to Remember Me. Ironically, perhaps, it was the only song of his she hadn’t heard before he left. She’d only ever caught snatches of the song from Coco’s room after her daughter was in bed. Ernesto had claimed that Héctor sold him his guitar and songs before heading north. If Coco knew Remember Me, then it was undoubtedly written by Héctor, not Ernesto, but why would that matter if the song had been sold?

On the other side of the restaurant, Héctor hit a sour note, and stopped in the middle of his song to glare at the offending string.

Imelda snorted as she watched. The guitar she’d given him was rarely out of tune. He likely wouldn’t have any issues now if he hadn’t sold it.

She froze with her fork half-way to her mouth, suddenly wishing she could slap herself for not thinking of that sooner.

If Héctor had gone north to seek fame, why had he sold Ernesto the guitar and all of his songs? Surely he would have needed songs to play, and something to play them on? Even if he decided the memories associated with the guitar were too much, he would have to be a fool to sell it without getting a replacement, doubly so to sell all his songs when he was just starting out. She could understand, on a practical level, selling the songs connected to her, to Coco, if he truly wanted to leave them behind. But that still left at least half his repertoire, full of songs she knew would have easily caught on with the right crowd- had caught on with Ernesto playing them.

The dinner she’d just eaten settled like a stone in her gut. Héctor’s letters had grown shorter the longer he was on the road, true, but the cutoff had been abrupt. There’d been mentions of fights with Ernesto, though he never went into detail. The early letters were often accompanied by songs and poems, but the last several had lacked those. Imelda swallowed uncomfortably and glanced at Héctor yet again- now back to playing, having fixed the issue with his strings. Something didn’t add up right, but the only one present who could tell her more didn’t remember enough to explain.

“Oh dear.” Diego was back, gesturing nervously at her plate. “Is something wrong with your dinner, señora?”

Imelda forced a smile on her face. “No. I’m afraid I just recalled something I really would rather have not remembered. The food was delicious.” Even so, she couldn’t make herself eat another bite.

Diego grinned, apparently reassured. “I see. I shall hope that you forget again very soon.” he glanced toward Héctor and his grin grew. “You’re in for a treat, señora. He hasn’t wandered off yet, and it’s nearly eight o’clock.”

Imelda felt as though she’d somehow missed part of the conversation. Then again, that seemed to be happening a lot this evening. “What happens at eight?”

Diego winked at her. “You’ll have to wait and see.” he wandered off again.

Imelda slumped in her seat, leaning her head in her hands and rubbing her temples. She really didn’t need more puzzles right now. The restaurant, she noticed, was growing quieter. The clink of dishes and bottles fading as other patrons turned toward Héctor’s corner. In the distance, she heard a bell begin to toll the hour.

Héctor stopped in the middle of his song, his eyes somehow more lively and more distant than before.

Imelda found herself leaning forward as the audience seemed to hold their collective breath.

Héctor closed his eyes and began to play. The opening notes were soft and gentle, not unlike the beginning of the song he’d written to propose to Imelda, although not that exact song either. Then he began to sing. “Remember me, though I have to say goodbye. Remember me, don’t let it make you cry…”

It was the same song Diego had said drove Héctor to fury, but not played the way Ernesto played it. The simple notes and gentle words reminded Imelda more of- of Coco, and the song she still sang to herself each night before bed.

“My song!” Coco had cried as a little girl, when Imelda tried to make her stop singing each night. “Papá said it’s my song!”

Hearing music, any music, tore at Imelda’s heart by then, but the anger and fear on her daughter’s face when told she had to stop was even worse. Imelda hadn’t slept that night, merely cried in her room until dawn and cursed Héctor for leaving. She hadn’t told Coco to stop again. Instead, she’d pretended not to hear the little voice each night. Coco, for her part, had confined her singing to that one song, sung quietly, alone in her room from then on. She almost always sang it at the same time.

Across the room, Héctor had opened his eyes to stare at a spot on the floor that looked no different from the rest. Except that, if Imelda thought back, it was roughly the same place Coco’s bed would have been were he back home singing her to sleep. She surely would have sung alone.

“...Know that I’m with you the only way that I can be.” Héctor’s voice caught on the words. “Until you’re in my arms again, remember me.” His eyes closed once more as the final notes faded into a silence that hung in the air. A moment later, he blinked, shook himself, and returned to his earlier playing. The restaurant patrons similarly returned to their conversations.

Imelda sat at her table, feeling a bit underwhelmed by the lack of response for Héctor’s performance. It felt like such a momentous thing -that he would sing a duet with his daughter, despite the distance between them and the fact that he supposedly had no memory of her- that surely deserved a round of applause at the very least. And yet, looking around the restaurant, it was as if the performance had never happened at all. Feeling more than a little light-headed, Imelda gathered up her glass and mostly cleaned plate, and made her way to the bar to pay.

“Was everything to your satisfaction?” the bartender asked.

Imelda nodded. “It was very good, thank you.” She handed over a fistfull of bills and coins, and waited for him to count out her change. While she waited, she glanced at Héctor. He still hadn’t noticed her. “Does he play here often?” she asked, nodding in Héctor’s direction.

The bartender sighed. “Often enough.” He handed over her change. “I used to figure he’d disappear one day. Thought it would mean he finally remembered where his home was, or someone came and found him. But after this many years, I’m not sure anymore that’ll happen. He’s a nice fellow, mild-mannered and all. Brings in extra business when he’s here.”

“Does-” Imelda paused, not quite certain she should ask “-does he play that song most nights?”

The bartender fixed her with a hard look. “Sí, he does. Try not to get any ideas, though.”

Imelda blinked at him, confused. Between him and Diego, confusing her was turning into a family trait.

He must have realized she didn’t know what he was talking about, because he continued. “We’ve had mariachi come through before who took his playing as an invitation to join in. Or they question him about it after the fact. He always ends up angry or confused. I know Diego thinks it’s sweet that he sings the same song every night, I can barely stand to hear it myself.” He sighed again, fixing his gaze on Héctor. “That man’s trapped in his own mind, and nothing any of us have done has helped. That song, that’s the closest he gets to breaking out. Hearing it each night is like hearing a cry for help you can’t answer.” Another patron at the bar waved for his attention. “Perdón, señora. Enjoy your evening.” Then he was gone, leaving Imelda with her thoughts.

She looked at Héctor one last time, still playing his guitar, and left the restaurant. She needed time to think, to try and sort out the truth from the lies, and the fresh air would help clear her mind. Or so she hoped.

Héctor’s music followed her back to the inn, continuing uninvited in her head long after she was out of hearing range. She doubted she’d get much rest. But then, she hadn’t slept much after he disappeared, either. Perhaps it was fitting that she stay up half the night after seeing him again. She dressed for sleep, put out the light, and lay in the bed staring at the ceiling. And she thought, and thought, and thought some more.

And when the dawn finally broke, she realized she had neither slept, nor puzzled out the answers to her questions.

Her husband had left on his trip 10 years ago, writing almost daily. His letters had grown shorter and less energetic as time went by, before cutting off abruptly several months into the tour. Some months later, nearly a year after leaving, his friend and partner, Ernesto, had returned to tell her she’d been abandoned. And somewhere in there, a group of drunks had found Héctor buried in a shallow grave on the brink of death.

Try as she might, Imelda couldn’t make all the pieces line up and fit together properly, there were simply too many gaps.

Ernesto might be able to fill in those gaps, were she to track him down and convince him to answer her questions. But that would take longer than she wanted, and she doubted he would answer her willingly, or truthfully. She’d known he was a liar when they were young, twisting or exaggerating tales so that they worked in his favor. Looking back, that was something she should have remembered that day in the plaza. And besides his lying nature, the gaps in the story were forming too easily into a theory she didn’t dare acknowledge just yet, but which she knew could take the man from hateful to dangerous.

No, Ernesto would not do for a source of answers, so she would have to look to Héctor. The bartender had said that attempts had been made to bring Héctor’s memories back, but nothing had worked. Then again, none of them had known Héctor before the memory loss; Imelda had grown up with him. She’d married him, lived with him, had a child with him. If she couldn’t spark his memories; well, that wasn’t worth dwelling on, she told herself as she dressed for the day. She would deal with that problem if it arose.

The city streets weren’t empty when she left her room in the inn, although they were far less crowded than they had been the day before.

Imelda kept her head high and her steps sure as she made her way back toward La Caléndula. The bartender would likely have questions for her before he would be willing to tell her where she might find Héctor. But she would swallow her pride and answer them truthfully, otherwise she didn’t know where she should even begin. When the bar came into view, however, she realized she wouldn’t need to ask.

Héctor sat on the step leading onto the porch of the restaurant, head tipped forward, and wearing a ratty straw hat that covered his face such that she couldn’t tell if he was awake or asleep. His battered guitar was on the ground next to him, the neck tipped against his knees and held loosely in one hand. He looked like he had been sitting there all night. The restaurant door opened, and Imelda found herself ducking into a deep doorway. She wasn’t sure she wanted a witness to her potential failure.

Diego stepped out onto the porch, covering a yawn and holding a bucket and rag with one hand. He gently nudged Héctor, then walked to the windows and began wiping them down.

Imelda watched as Héctor stirred, reaching his arms above his head and stretching in a way she knew made his spine pop. He’d startled her doing that the first morning after their wedding, but it had become endearingly familiar over time. She waited a few more minutes, watching Diego try to strike up a conversation and Héctor murmuring half-replies while she debated whether or not to come back later. She could always stop in at the tanner’s first, to see if that shipment of leather had arrived yet, and come back once Diego was gone and Héctor was alone once more. Except she couldn’t be sure Héctor wouldn’t leave before she returned.

Taking a deep breath, she paused -to see that her braids were still properly in place and not because she was scared- and stepped from the doorway.

“Buenos días, señora,” Diego called when she drew near.

Imelda didn’t answer him, her eyes locked on Héctor. He looked up, and she felt her heart race in her chest. Her breath seemed caught in her throat, and her stomach was doing all sorts of interesting acrobatics. She felt, rather absurdly, like she had when she told him she was pregnant with Coco- as though her world had tipped on its axis and she hadn’t quite righted herself yet.

She hadn’t actually planned this far ahead. She’d been so preoccupied with looking for him that she hadn’t realized until now that she had no idea what to say. She swallowed, but her mouth remained dry.

Héctor hadn’t looked away.

Imelda took a breath. “Héctor-” her voice came out like a squeak. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Héctor-” that was better, and she had his attention now “-do you know who I am?”

His face remained blank, and for a long, terrifying moment, she was afraid it wouldn’t work, that his memories were too far gone to ever recall. Then, almost painfully slowly, his expression changed. He scrunched his brows together and pursed his mouth the same way he had so many times before when trying to pull a song into being. And his eyes never left her face.

Imelda stayed standing before him with her hands clasped at her waist, vaguely aware of Diego calling for his tío. Her palms were sweaty, and she was gripping her hands so tightly she knew without looking her knuckles had gone white. But she didn’t dare move, she almost didn’t dare blink.

Héctor shifted on the step, knocking his hat off when he tangled his fingers in his hair and pressed the heels of his hands to his temples. The look on his face was quickly giving way from confusion to a combination of distress and pain; and Imelda was suddenly afraid she might have sent him into a state of panic if his memories failed to return.

“Hush,” she tried to comfort him, cautiously kneeling down and reaching to cover his hands with her own. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

The backs of his hands were dry against her sweaty palms, and quite warm. And his hair felt more brittle than she remembered.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and swayed back and forth, the world around them forgotten as his inner battle played across his face. Imelda rubbed gentle circles against his wrists, racking her brain for some way to calm him down. She’d grown quite skilled at handling crises in the past decade, raising her daughter as a single parent. But this wasn’t the sort of crisis she’d ever had to face before. Slowly, she became aware of Héctor humming to himself, a nervous, breathy sound that she soon recognized. The song he’d written to propose to her. It was quieter, more serious that Poco Loco, and undeniably hers. She didn’t recall him playing it the night before. Her voice was rusty as she joined him, humming instead of singing because the hurt she’d felt since he left was still there. She’d sworn off music when Ernesto told her she was abandoned, leaving it all for Héctor if he loved it so much more than her. But if it was the way to bring him back, then she could make an exception.

They reached the end of the song and started over from the beginning, Héctor’s voice growing stronger, and Imelda more sure of the notes. She leaned her forehead against his and closed her eyes, focusing only on the sound of their voices blending together, sometimes the same, sometimes harmonizing.

“Imelda.”

His voice was so soft she almost didn’t realize he’d spoken. She drew back and opened her eyes.

Héctor was looking at her again with a fragile sort of hope in his eyes. “Imelda?” he said, his voice louder but shaking.

“Shh, I’m here,” she whispered, brushing away a tear that had begun to form in the corner of his eye. “I’m here.”

“Imelda,” he said again, this time sounding more sure of himself. He broke into a grin murmuring her name over and over. “Imelda, you’re Imelda. I remember. Imelda, I remember-” The words died in his throat, his happy grin sinking into a wide-eyed horror. “I forgot, Imelda,” he gasped. “I forgot you! How- I forgot Coco!” His voice broke on their daughter’s name. “No- How- I forgot!”

He’d begun to tremble, and all Imelda could think to do was pull him towards her. He came easily, practically collapsing into her arms as he continued to babble. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry! I promised to be home in six months and I forgot! I-I was planning to come home. I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

Imelda was caught in an awkward half-crouch while he clung to her, but she pushed the discomfort aside and brought one hand up to cradle his head, and gently ran the other up and down his spine. His face was buried against her shoulder, her dress growing wet with tears. He was still shaking, too, and he felt much too thin now that she was holding him. “Shh,” she murmured again, stroking his hair. “Shh. I’m here. It’s going to be alright.”

It was, perhaps, a foolish promise. There were still so many questions to be asked. Diego and the bartender were both standing a short distance away with matching expressions of concern, and she was sure they would want to know why it had taken so long for her to find Héctor, and why she hadn’t gone to him the night before. There would be letters to write to Coco and the twins. Letters saying who she had found, and explaining that she would be delayed coming home. She had no intention to leave Mexico City until she understood what had happened to Héctor to lock his memories away for so long.

But her most burning question had been answered. He’d wanted to come home. He’d planned to come home, and been prevented. Coco was right; he’d never abandoned them. It was enough, for now, to build on. She couldn’t say exactly what would happen in the long run. If they’d ever be able to return to even a semblance of what had been, or if their relationship would be forever broken. But they could worry about that later.

“I’m sorry,” Héctor whispered again. “I’m sorry for forgetting.”

Imelda hugged him tighter. “You’ve remembered now,” she countered.

“Sí,” Héctor agreed after a long silence. “I remember.”

[spookyandwithdrawn]

Wow, it’s already been three weeks since I wrote here? This summer (and the whole year in general) has gone by so quickly. I hate July primarily because it’s my birthday month and it always goes by too damn fast! I’m dreading my birthday as usual, but I’d rather not think about that right now.

I guess I felt compelled to log in here again because I’ve been feeling very depressed all night. Tonight’s problem is just that I feel super lonely. I might as well be honest on here because I have nothing to lose and no one really reads this anyway, so I will admit that I only have a few people left in my life anymore. I have my parents, I have two IRL friends (whom I see maybe...once every 2-3 months?), and I have one close (or formerly close, which is what I’m about to complain about) online friend. I really considered this online friend my best friend over the last few years. We talked every day. We were in similar places in our lives, both of us being like anxious hermit shut-in people who rarely left our houses for anything but work. He all of a sudden put himself out there, finally got a boyfriend for the first time (and along with the boyfriend a pretty decent social life), and now he hardly talks to me anymore. I’m genuinely happy for him - he’s a good person, he deserves to be happy, and I’m glad that he’s found someone who has enriched his life. I guess I just feel kind of abandoned, and this is something I’ve felt so many times in my life. It’s a common theme in my life. People move on from me when they find something/someone better. In particular friends very often seem to ditch me once they get boyfriends. It’s frustrating, and bringing this up to them has never yielded good results. Basically they deny it or downplay it or detach themselves from me entirely (sometimes only until they break up with their significant others). It’s just frustrating.

I guess I find it frustrating primarily for a couple of reasons. One is that I really value friendship and it bums me out to realize that my friends must not value friendship as much as I do (or maybe they just don’t value their specific friendship with me as much as I did). The other is that it just is upsetting that I’ve never been able to find someone who basically considered me their “#1″ for very long. I don’t mean to put it in such simplistic or childish terms, but it seemed like the easiest way to express what I’m saying. People just always seem to move on from me. They find someone better. They find a romantic relationship and consider that astronomically more important than our friendship. It gets old feeling abandoned time and time again. I try to be understanding, but then I start to resent feeling like I’m the only one trying and the only one attempting to be understanding...and feeling like they aren’t giving anything in return. I guess I just need to find my own romantic partner who’ll prioritize me, but that seems next to impossible at this point for a long list of reasons. 

Maybe it sounds ridiculous and pathetic that I’ve been so upset about this online friend, but my friendship with him was/is very important to me. We have a lot in common, we talked every day, we were important to each other. We’ve known each other for nearly a decade. It may not be exactly the same as meeting someone and being their friend IRL, but I think that it can still be important. A connection with someone for almost a decade has to mean something. Like, look, I don’t expect him to prioritize me or make me his “#1″ by any means, especially now that he has someone he can connect with in person, but I don’t see why it has to be all or nothing, you know? That’s really all I’m saying. 

Over the last month or so I’d come to a point of just kind of accepting this as the new reality between us and I’ve been trying to detach myself from him a bit to make it less painful when he inevitably does quit talking to me entirely, so I hadn’t been feeling quite so down about it lately, but it hit me all over again tonight because he’d told me that he was in my country (for a sort of spontaneous vacation with the boyfriend) but he hadn’t mentioned it to me at all prior to literally landing on our soil. Admittedly he’s visiting a state that’s far from where I live, but it just felt surprising that he’d come to my country and not even tell me until after the fact. Looking back on it now that I’m a bit less sad than I was earlier I’m wondering if I’m maybe being ridiculous about this, but it just seemed surprising to me. Like, if I were to visit his country I’d mention it to him immediately upon first conceiving of the plans, even if we wouldn’t have a chance to meet up anyway. It just seems like something worth mentioning, but I guess not? Maybe I’m making a big deal out of something insignificant? I don’t know. I have a tendency to latch on to something kind of small and hold it up as like wholly emblematic of some problem I’m having with someone.

Anyway, I’m just really sad and I miss having friends. I’ve never exactly been a huge social butterfly or anything, but I did used to have friends. At one point in my life I had multiple different groups of friends...people I saw almost daily and definitely talked to daily. I miss that. I’ve really let myself become too much of a recluse. I’m not sure of how to reengage myself with the world.