Chapter 21 #2
Hector is on his knees, his huge frame hunched over the final piece of plywood, the sharp bang of the hammer echoing in the quiet afternoon.
He drives the last nail home and stands, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
He eyes the three-tiered wooden structure we’ve built–sorry, he built.
“I survived two tours in Falluja. Never thought I’d end up a carpenter for the Damos family, building little houses for dead people.
” His tone is dry but not malicious, but the words still prickle.
I walk over and give his shin a swift, light kick.
“Ey!” Kari and I both yell simultaneously.
“For your information, it’s not just a little house. It’s our tradition, and you will respect it.” Kari informs him after she’s poked his muscly arm a few times. For emphasis, she says.
Hector looks away in shame as he rubs his shin, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “Perdon Senora, Miss Kari.” Giving the structure a final approving pat he moves away allowing me to do my own inspection.
“It’s solid, gracias, Hector.”
We drape the black velvet Kari brought onto the wooden display and add the other decorations. The moment the scent of the cempasúchil flower fills the air–that pungent, earthy smell of autumn and remembrance–something in me settles peacefully. This is mine, a piece of me in this place.
Just then, the sound of laughter drifts from inside the house, and a moment later, Veronica and Camilla emerge into the garden, their arms full of shopping bags from what was clearly a successful auntie and niece date.
Camilla spots us and slows down as she sees the wooden structure.
She leaves the bags with Veronica and walks curiously towards us, her small brow furrowed.
“What’s that?” she asks, her eyes wide as she takes in the ofrenda.
“This,” I point towards the structure as I crouch down to her level, “is an altar also known as an Ofrenda. It’s a special place we make for El Día de los Muertos. It’s so we remember and celebrate the family members who aren’t with us anymore.”
Kari and I spend about ten minutes explaining to her how we fill it with their favorite things, food, and pictures, so their spirits can find their way back to visit us for a couple of nights and eat.
She’s absolutely fascinated, her little mind processing all the information we’re telling her.
Then, the little twinkle shifts in her eyes.
“Like my mommy, Elena?” She gasps, a sharp, audible intake of air.
The question was so soft, so tentative, it felt like a single breath could shatter it. The air grew still. Kari stops arranging a pile of pan de muerto, I freeze, and beside me, I hear Veronica's soft intake of breath.
We’re both stunned into silence, completely caught off guard. Camilla’s gaze darts between our faces, searching for an answer.
My training as a nurse–the need to provide comfort in these types of moments–takes over as I kneel in front of Camilla, taking her small hands in mine.
"Yes, princess," I whisper, my voice thick with an emotion I didn't expect. "Just like your mommy. And you know what, we can put her photo right here." I point to the top tier, the place of highest honor.
That's all the permission she needs. Her face lights up with a relief so profound it makes my heart ache. She turns and runs back toward the house, her small legs pumping, disappearing through the glass doors without another word.
I stand up and turn to Verónica, who is watching me with a sad, knowing look in her eyes. The bright shopping bags lay forgotten at her feet.
"Her mother… Elena," Verónica begins, her voice low and soft. "She passed away a few days after Camilla was born. An air embolism. It was… very sudden, and my brother was destroyed."
An air embolism, as a nurse, I know those are uncommon, but to know the cruel twist of fate that ripped a mother from her child, and a woman from the love of her life, sends a profound wave of sadness to my heart.
Not just for the little girl who never got to know her mother, but also for the cold, ruthless man who was once just a man who lost the love of his life.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell Veronica as I swallow past the lump in my throat.
“Damn girl, now that's tragic. Mis condolencias para tu familia, girl.” Kari tells Veronica. My best friend has never been good at comforting people in hard times, but I can never say she doesn’t at least try.
Verónica gives a small, melancholic smile.
"Thank you, both of you, but it was a long time ago.
" She looks from me to the Ofrenda. "Honestly, she would have loved this.
" We soak in the moment of silence before I’m ready to end it before it gets awkward, knowing Kari will probably start telling some weird-ass jokes.
"Well, since you're here, you can help." I grab a string of vibrant flowers from a box. "We have to cover the arches."
For the next ten minutes, all three of us work together in a comfortable silence, weaving the bright orange and yellow cempasúchil flowers through the wooden frame.
The pungent, earthy scent of them is the smell of my childhood, of my own Nana teaching me how to make paper flowers at our kitchen table.
The glass door opens again as Camilla returns, walking much slower this time, her pace almost reverent.
She holds a silver picture frame in both hands, clutching it to her chest. As she gets closer, I recognize the item.
It's a photo from Ernesto's desk. It’s of a woman with a bright, beautiful smile, her dark hair windswept, her eyes full of life; this is Elena. She’s absolutely breathtakingly beautiful.
Camilla approaches the Ofrenda and carefully places the frame in the center of the top tier.
She steps back, her hands clasped behind her back, and stares up at her mother's smiling face.
Verónica comes to stand beside her, placing a gentle hand on her niece's shoulder.
The four of us stand there for a moment, four women from different worlds, united in this small act of remembrance.
We surround Elena's photograph with white roses. We place my Nana Lupe's picture next to a small glass of tequila, courtesy of Ernesto's personal stash, as Camilla carefully arranges a plate of the cookies we'd baked last night.
"She's pretty, right?" Camilla whispers, her voice filled with a quiet awe.
"She's beautiful, princess," I whisper back.
A shadow falls over us, and I can’t help but jump as I'm startled and spin around. Ernesto stands there, materializing out of nowhere like he always does. His suit is immaculate, his expression unreadable, but his eyes are locked on the ofrenda—specifically, the photograph.
He doesn't speak. He just stares at Elena's picture, his body perfectly still.
The air grows heavy, thick with years of unspoken grief.
I can feel Hector backing Kari away from us as Verónica tenses beside me, and I see the way Camilla shrinks closer to her aunt.
The strained silence stretches, a taut wire charged with memories and pain.
I watch his face, searching for any flicker of emotion, but his mask of cold control is firmly in place.
His eyes, however, betray him. They’re locked onto the silver-framed photograph at the top of the altar, and for a split second, I see it. A raw, unguarded pain so deep it’s like looking into an open wound. It’s there one second, and then it’s gone, sealed away behind a wall of ice.
"Papi, look!" Camilla runs to him, grabbing his hand and pulling him closer. "We made a party for Mommy and Ale's nana!"
Ernesto looks down at his daughter, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. He allows her to lead him to the front of the altar. He kneels, bringing himself down to her level, his suit jacket pulling taut across his broad shoulders.
"It's beautiful, chiquita," he says, his voice a low, restrained rumble. His gaze returns to the Ofrenda and remains fixed on the photo. After a few long, silent seconds, he reaches out and gently pulls his daughter into his arms, lifting her so she is cradled against his chest.
"Today is the first day," he says, his voice low, softer than I have ever heard it.
He speaks to Camilla, but it feels like he is speaking to the ghost in the photograph.
"On the first day, we light the first candle.
" He gestures toward the altar, where I placed three tall, white candles.
"And we lay down a white flower. It's for the souls who have passed on.
We do it to welcome them, to let them know we are still thinking of them.
" He looks at Camilla, his eyes dark and serious.
"It is the start of their journey back to us. "
His words sound like a quiet prayer, a piece of a tradition I assumed he had left behind. I watch him be gentle with Camilla, mesmerized. This is a side of him I hadn’t seen—the father, the widower, the keeper of sacred memories.
I feel a slight movement and turn my head.
Verónica is backing away slowly, her expression a complex mix of sorrow and something else…
hope? She catches my eye, gives me a small, sad smile, and then a quick, encouraging nod.
As if to say, stay with them. Then turns and walks quietly back into the house, joining Kari and Hector at the entrance, leaving the three of us alone in the fading afternoon light.
I’m puzzled by her retreat, but my attention is pulled back to the scene next to me.
Ernesto is still holding Camilla as her head rests peacefully on his shoulder, her small arms wrapped around his neck, admiring the altar together.
I step forward, pick up the lighter I left on the ground, and hand it to him.
A spark of heat passes through us as he takes it, his fingers brushing mine.
He leans in and lights the first of the three white candles.
The small flame flickered to life, a tiny beacon in the growing darkness of the night.
For the next thirty minutes, we remain in the garden, not breaking the silence and serenity this act has brought to us.
The only sounds are the gentle rustle of leaves in the evening breeze and the distant hum of the city.
Camilla's breathing has deepened, and her body has gone lax in her father's arms as she drifts off to sleep. The weight of her seems to anchor him, to hold him here in this moment of quiet reflection. I watch the candlelight dance across his face, softening the hard lines, revealing the profound sadness in his eyes. He’s the image of a man, mourning his love, holding his child.
I break the silence, my voice a whisper. "She hasn't had dinner, Ernesto. We should get her inside."
He looks at me, his eyes clearing as if waking from a dream. He looks down at the sleeping child in his arms, then back at me. Without a word, he shifts her weight, preparing to carry her.
"Let me," I say, stepping closer and holding out my arms.
He hesitates for a fraction of a second, a flicker of his possessive nature rising to the surface, but it quickly subsides.
He carefully transfers Camilla into my arms. Her little body is a warm, solid weight against my chest. She stirs slightly, murmuring something in her sleep, and nestles her face into the crook of my neck.
I hold his daughter, the living, breathing legacy of the woman on the altar, and turn toward the warm lights of the house. I walk away, leaving him alone in the garden with the flickering candle and the ghost of his past.