Things We Say And Do When People Die

Humberto Humberto’s heart stops. His family crowd around his bed. Some weep. The green line that peaked on the heart monitor levels out. His daughter, Patricia, lifts his stunted body. She grabs his hand and squeezes it. She says, “No, no, no. Not yet, not yet. Get up, Pop. Not yet.” Patricia’s daughter, Abigail, joins her. They embrace him and keep his torso upright. Everyone else ducks their heads, including the nurse, but not his ex-wife, Sofia. Sofia is standing at the foot of the bed. She looks forward and surveys Abigail and Patricia with dense stone eyes. She folds her arms and humphs. Patricia had never embraced her like that. Would she do the same to her if she died? It’s not fair. After what he did to her. She zooms in on Humberto Humberto’s thin, ropy hands, where his wedding band once was. Not even a tan line to reflect their history. She looks at her own wrinkly fingers and palms―no wedding band, either. She fidgets and twists a ring on her middle finger with the opposite hand. Sofia glances around. “And Mikey? Where is he? Did anybody call him?” Everyone in the Bustamante family had been talking about it all week―at the hospital, on group and individual text messages, on phone calls, by the water coolers―how Humberto Humberto was nearing the end and how Mikey was out of the country and didn’t care. Later, the family would say that the signs had always been there: Mikey always clashed with Humberto Humberto, there was always some defect to his personality, he rarely checked in and never cared about anyone but himself. But then again, nobody bothered to contact Mikey and inform him that his father was hospitalized, and by the time Mikey found out it was already too late because everyone had come to their own conclusions about his absence. Sofia’s eyes fixate on her purse that’s hanging on a chair where Patricia’s son sits slouched, with a backward ballcap on top of his dark, tangle-locked hair. His arm brushes against the bundle as he scratches around his crotch. His legs are widespread. His fingernails have paint and dirt smudges. She nods in disapproval. Everything about him is gross. What if he steals my money, like the others? A bloated manila folder is sticking out slightly from her purse and it has numerous hundred-dollar bills inside. On the front, Bustamante is underlined and scribbled in oval and sloping cursive letters. The writing is unmistakably hers. It came from an elementary school-only education. Humberto Humberto’s penmanship was similar. Once or twice, she forged his signature. Nobody found out. The hundred-dollar bills are tucked between notarized documents regarding Humberto Humberto’s pension, social security benefits, 401 retirement, life insurance policy, and expired home deeds of trust. Guarded items she doesn’t want anyone to know about. Humberto Humberto had signed some documents over to her a few weeks ago while on medication. He didn’t know what he had signed and he had mentioned it to Patricia. In a trembling voice, he said, “I need you to protect me from her. Why does she keep coming in here at night after everyone has left? She’s not even my wife anymore.” On one of those nights, Sofia bought a disposable razor and shaving cream kit from a hospital vending machine near the gift shop. His chin and jawline had turned prickly, and she forgot what his smooth face felt like. She wanted him to look robust. When the nurse left them alone, after he had taken sleep medication, she flicked his nose and cheeks with her finger. Nothing. She shook the bottle and applied the foam on his chin. She swayed the tool up and down, side to side. If felt different than when she shaved her legs. Between the foam she spotted bright red spots. She wiped the foam with a towel and there were blotches of blood and vertical lines with exposed skin. Sofia’s face wrinkled and the corner of her lip arched; she smacked him on the cheek. Her fingers picked up his DNA. It startled him and he woke up to find Sofia staring at him with her nostrils flared and her teeth gritted. He thought she was a ghost so he ignored the stings on his face. He shut his eyes and hoped she’d be gone. She saw tears in the corners of his eyes and she smiled. She blotted the shaving cream and blood on his sheet. Nobody knew what Sofia was up to. She always had a plan, even when they were married, for when he died. * * * Sofia’s mind shifts back to Mikey and his absence. Her and Mikey were not on good terms. A while back, she had asked for his assistance in regards to translation services with her divorce lawyer. Mikey had only taken one law class in college as an undergrad, but many in the Bustamante family said he was well-versed in legalese. He wasn’t, nor did he claim to be. On the contrary, he always spoke about how much he loathed that class―Judicial Review. Instead, he chose art school and when he told Humberto Humberto about his decision, his father said it was for sissies and that he’d always be broke. He mocked Mikey’s soft and unblemished hands. When Mikey arrived to pick Sofia up that day, she was sliding paperwork between the mattress and removing the Bustamante folder from a security box that she protected with a padlock. He stood at her bedroom door and nodded. Mikey said, “What’s all this?” Sofia rushed to the exit, shoved him, and turned the lock on her bedroom door. Her eyes widened and she placed a vertical finger to her lips. She whispered, “I can’t trust Patricia. And especially not that animal she calls a husband…. Leonardo. He doesn’t even work. What kind of grown man with a family doesn’t work? They might steal all my paperwork…. and my money.” Mikey smacked his lips and bowled his eyes and said, “C’mon, mom…. why would they steal your paperwork?” She said, “You don’t know how they are―you don’t live here. They always take your dad’s side over mine. They want me dead…. all of them. They’d probably even cut the brakes on my car. You’re the only one I trust, the only one. Let’s take your car, just in case.” She glanced all over the place and squinted as though she spotted something unusual underneath the bed. Sofia’s lawyer’s office was in Downtown Los Angeles, nestled between Pico Union and Westlake. They parked in a structure across the street, and as Sofia leafed through loose papers as they crossed the intersection, the wind caused her to fumble and the papers slowly swayed toward the ground while others remained suspended, wavering in the air, making a slow descent. Sofia looked at the dull-colored buildings and trash-infested streets and scoffed. Cars honked and one revved the engine. Mikey threw his hands in the air to challenge the driver. Sofia retired to the curb and crossed her arms. She said, “I’m not going to help. How’s that going to look?” Mikey scrambled around, stepped on scattered papers as they ebbed in playful earnest along the street. She thought that Mikey looked real stupid. When he finished, Sofia walked away with her head held high and didn’t wait for her son. Underneath his breath, he flung cuss words at her.