Manny’s flight doesn’t get in till 4:13 p.m., but we’re standing at the bottom of the baggage claim escalator by three thirty. I got butterflies in my gut, and I can’t stop hopping up and down. Xochitl’s holding Mami and Papi close. Papi’s wringing his hands. We’re all looking at each other and we can’t stop giggling.
Finally, Mami points and shouts, “Manuel!”
He’s at the top of the escalator!
We go crazy—all of us jumping now—hooting and hollering, watching him glide down.
He puts on an act like he doesn’t even know us. He turns and looks up at the people behind him, like What celebrity is back there? When he looks at us again, he bugs his eyes out and points at himself. Then he cracks a smile and starts laughing and jumping up and down, clapping and screaming like an idiot—just like we been doing.
He finally makes it to us and we tackle him. Everybody gets a piece of Manny. Holding his hand. His face. Wrapping arms around him. You’re home. I can’t believe it’s you. It’s me. It’s really me. You’ve grown, T. You, too, Papi. Xoch, what’s with the purple stripe in your hair? Mami, I missed you most of all.
In the car, Manny says, “I have one wish for my first meal home.”
“You can count on your mamá,” Papi says.
At the rental Manny says it’s way better than what he was expecting after Papi’s description. He calls my room the Captain’s Quarters. Says he likes it so much he might wanna trade at some point. Manny is so positive it makes me reconsider my attitude about the rental. And that makes me remember why I love Manny so much.
We talk and laugh and devour our green chile cheeseburgers. Manny jokes and tells our old stories. He has a million questions and keeps saying, “This is so good, Mami.” He seems so happy it’s hard to imagine he just got back from a war.
There’s a part of me that’s there, with everyone, enjoying it all. But another part of me is floating above the table. I’m seeing how we look and hearing how we sound, counting us and thinking, Finally, this is us.
“Ay, mijo, I forgot to toast!” Papi says.
We raise glasses in the air. Papi opens his mouth to start.
But there’s a sound.
A rattling sound.
We all look.
Ice cubes are dancing in Manny’s glass. The tablecloth is soaked. Manny’s smile is gone. He squeezes his glass till his hand turns white, but he can’t stop the shakes.
Manny sets the glass down and puts his smile back on. “So, if you were watching very closely there, you may have noticed my hands now have a mind of their own.”
“No importa, mijo,” Papi says. “Mine been doing that for a while, too.” Then he raises his glass higher and says, “To our son, and brother. Welcome home, Manuel.”
To being home. To having you home. To watching Mami and Papi dance. To Manny’s snoring. To brother-sister movie nights with both my brothers. To more of these burgers …
We finally clink glasses. Manny tries, but he can’t control that trembling hand.
Then Xochitl starts shaking her glass. “Damn, Manny! It’s contagious!”
What the heck, Xochitl?
Manny smirks and snorts a laugh.
So I do it, too. “Look what you’ve done to me, bro!”
Manny says, “I must be quarantined before it takes over the neighborhood!”
Mami and Papi have no choice.
“Oh my God!” Manny says. “It’s got Mami and Papi! AAAAGH!”
We all scream and shout and turn into hideous, trembling, glass-clinking monsters. We soak that tablecloth and we laugh and keep each other laughing for a long time.
Except for the shakes, and except for looking like he’s thirty-five, Manny is awesome. He’s funny. He’s thoughtful. He’s my same old brother. Manny is home. And he’s strong.
I catch Xochitl’s eye and nod toward Manny like, See? I told you.
Xochitl nods back like she’s telling me I was right. And she and Manny were wrong. And everything is gonna be good.
I give Xochitl a thumbs-up, and she knows I mean thanks for getting us ready.
She smiles and mouths the words, No problem.
Papi’s still talking. I look and see Manny’s hand on his lap. I reach and give it a squeeze.
Manny looks at our hands. He squeezes back. He looks at me. Smiles. Nods. He shakes his head, like he can’t believe it, either. He squeezes hard, and he doesn’t let go till he’s wiping his eyes.
* * *
When Mami, Papi, and Xochitl finally go to bed, I get up and dig through my backpack. I grab the paper and head over to Manny’s room. Knock on the door.
He opens up. And we’re looking each other right in the eyes. Manny’s wider than me, but I’m just as tall. Manny notices, too.
“You got big,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. “And I grew up.”
I show him my report card. I tell him I got a job to pay for a tutor. I tell him how hard I studied with Caleb the whole semester and that’s why I did so well on my finals.
“After what I heard, I was worried about you,” he says.
“I was worried about you,” I say. “Bad. For a long time.”
“Tell you what, T: I’ll quit worrying about you and you quit worrying about me. Deal?”
We shake on it. Then I say, “I still might need some help with math. I know you got the grades and all that, so…”
“Of course, T,” he says. “Anytime. I’m home now.”
WED FEB 11 8:38 P.M.
T: He’s home! And he’s great.
Wendy: YAAAAAAAAAAAY!!!
T: I’m feeling … I don’t know. It’s
too big, I can’t describe it.
Wendy: Wow, Teodoro. Hugs to Manuel
and to you and the whole family.
T: Don’t know if I could have
survived the waiting without
you. Thanks, Wendy.
Wendy: You are welcome. And I love
that comma there, Teodoro.
T: And the period.
Wendy: Yes, Teodoro. I’ve been
loving ALL the punctuation.