I wake to Manny standing up on his bed. He’s pointing his imaginary rifle at me. Trembling. Muscles tight. He opens his mouth to shout his instructions, but before he can, I slap him in the legs, hard. “Manny, wake up!”
I jump over and grab him so he doesn’t fall off the bed. “I got you, Manuel.” I say it loud and he comes to. “You’re at Tío Ed’s. You had a bad dream.”
He crawls back into bed. Pulls the covers over his face.
I get back in. Pull my covers up. And figure it’s best to act like it never happened.
So I try that for a minute.
But it sucks.
So I get up. Turn on the lights. Nudge Manny in the gut. “Hey, dude.”
Manny pulls his blanket back. He looks so damn sad. “I been taking my meds,” he says.
“I know you have.”
“The counseling is good. Group is good. I love the farm. It’s all going great.” He grunts and says, “I want this part to be over.”
“It’s gonna take time,” I say. “Just like it did for Tío Ed.”
The door cracks open. It’s Xochitl. “You guys okay in here?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“We’re good,” Manny says.
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” I say. “We’re fine, Xoch.”
“Okay, guys. Let me know.” She closes the door.
Manny says he can’t sleep and he could use a walk.
We head out with the crickets and stars. Down the driveway, out to the road.
I can tell he doesn’t wanna talk more about what happened because he asks me about Wendy.
I tell Manny he can’t tell a soul, but I hope to marry that girl someday.
Manny promises.
“If I ever do, you’re my best man.”
“What about Caleb?”
“You’re my best. Caleb’s my next best.”
We talk about New Mexico. About him maybe starting school here. And we talk about Mami and Papi. About him being so far from them again.
And because I been curious, I ask him about the ridiculous fish tattoo I saw on his chest at the hospital.
Manny tells me that a couple nights before he left for the army, Papi took him out on the town.
“Like out, out? With drinking? You and Papi?”
“Yeah.” He laughs at the thought. Then he says, “T, you know my enlisting upset Mami.”
“And Papi giving you his blessing upset her even more.”
“The truth is, Papi didn’t want me to go, either. I think he hated the idea.”
“Did he say that?”
“No. He never said anything close to it. But he did tell me a story about when he left home.”
Turns out, when Papi decided to leave Santa Ana and come to the US, our Abuelo Julio pleaded with him not to go. He put up a huge dramatic fight. Even told Papi he’d never speak to him again. He made it as hard on Papi as he could. And it changed their relationship forever.
“After that,” Manny says, “Papi left anyway. And he made a promise to himself. If he ever had kids, he’d never stand in the way of their dreams. No matter what.”
“Are you trying to tell me that you and Papi got tattoos?”
Manny laughs again. “I told you there was drinking.”
“Yeah,” I say, “No other explanation for a fish tattoo.”
“We brainstormed animals that are known for coming home. Our tattoos would be a reminder—or good luck—that I was gonna make it back. We nixed monarch butterflies and all kinds of birds. And we ended up going full-on northwest with the Chinook salmon.”
“Salmon come back to make babies and then they die. That’s twisted, Manny.”
“Like I said, our judgment was impaired.”
“It’s cool Papi did that.”
Yeah,” he says. “Look, I don’t blame Mami for being upset. Not one bit. In the end, she was probably right. But Papi supporting me—it meant everything.”
We walk along in the dark. And in the sounds of our footsteps, crickets, and coyotes, I think about Papi sending Manny off in style.
And I think about Manny and Xochitl and me.
And I make a plan for my future.