After a week together as a whole family, it’s time.
There is not one dry eye as we say good-bye to Mami, Papi, and Xochitl. Xochitl is going home for a couple weeks to rehearse with Ray Is a Girl before the tour, so she’s taking the same flight. Even though she’ll only be there a short time, Manny and I are relieved that we’re not sending Mami and Papi back to the empty rental alone.
I hug them good-bye till Thanksgiving—Ed and Luci invited them down.
I hug my sister and tell her, “Keep in touch. I’m going to need to hear from you every day. Like maybe a couple times.”
She laughs at that.
“Promise?” I say.
“Promise,” she says.
“Thanks for everything, Xoch.” But there’s no way I can make that sound as big as I mean it.
She just squeezes me hard and looks at me right in the eyes and says everything she needs to say.
Back at the farm, Wendy’s packed for her flight. She takes off early tomorrow for senior year in Vancouver.
I ask her if she’ll join me on a date.
Tío Ed and Luci work the stand.
Wendy and I head into Hatch. This time it’s the Pepper Pot.
It’s a converted house with a very lived-in vibe. And they serve some of the tastiest food around. The lady asks if we’re ready. We tell her we’d like Cokes, green chile stew, and enchiladas.
“Red or green?” she says.
I go with the green chile.
“Red or green?” Wendy says. “I cannot decide. So make mine Christmas.” She says it like she’s a real New Mexican.
The lady walks away and Wendy says, “Teodoro, I’ve been waiting so long for the chance to say that. And now I have to leave here and go home to a place where Christmas has nothing to do with chile. It’s just Santa and Baby Jesus and that just isn’t enough anymore.”
We hold hands across that little table. And we smile at each other till our food comes. We devour the feast and Wendy says she’s so jealous that I get this food whenever I want.
I scoot my chair right next to Wendy. I take out my phone. Boot up the camera. We make sure we both have mouths full. I reach my arm way out. One, two, three …
“Damn!” we say. Then I click the shot.
Wendy checks it. “Delete that now.”
“You look radiant in this photo. I will never delete it.”
We get quiet again.
I tell Wendy I love her again.
She tells me she loves me.
We go over our long-distance plan. Texts. Phone calls. Old-fashioned pen-and-paper letters and postcards.
I’ll go home for Christmas.
Maybe she can make it down for spring break.
Pretty soon the words stop.
We pay for our food.
And we walk.
We hold hands up and down the main street, and Wendy says, “Good-bye, street where Wild West gunslingers once roamed.”
We walk inside Sparky’s and check out the empty stage. “Good-bye, place of magical musical memories,” she says.
We hop in the truck. We drive to the dump. Wendy says, “Good-bye, dump.”
We meander down Valley Drive. Into Las Cruces and back. Wendy says good-bye to the Organ Mountains, good-bye to the Chihuahuan Desert, good-bye to pecan orchards, cotton fields, hundreds of acres of chile, and good-bye to the Rio Grande.
We head back to the farm and work our last night together. We kiss as Wendy retrains me on money and inventory counts—her old jobs. Then we sit under the stars, under that ocean of sky, holding hands, kissing, and talking. Kissing and remembering. Kissing and making promises until night turns into morning and Wendy says, “Good-bye to the place where I fell in love.”