Prologue
Prologue
“Papá, ¿por qué mamá y el bebé tienen que quedarse en el hospital?” (Dad, why does mom and the baby have to stay in the hospital?) A small boy spoke, around the age of eleven. His eyes were wide and his voice seemed to break with every word. He sat awkwardly in the front seat of a truck, holding onto a backpack full of items.
The father, much older, furrowed his eyebrows. He couldn’t find the words to explain to his son. “Bueno, hubo un poco de complicaciones. Así que me quedaré allí. Estarás con tu tía, pero no te preocupes. Te recogeremos en poco tiempo.” (Well, there were a bit of complications. So I'll be staying there. You'll be with your aunt, but don't worry. We'll pick you up in no time.) The tip of his fingers tapped nervously on the wheel.
“¿Prometo que puedo visitar por la mañana?” (Promise I can visit in the morning?)
“Prometo.” (Promise.)
—:)
The rain fell on the top of the very same truck.
The boy, this time, was dressed in dark attire. As his father drove, he took the time to stare outside. Perhaps watching raindrops race one another down below.
In the back seat was a baby, dressed in similar attire. She slept, as if the rain was some lullaby to put her asleep.
The same tapping was given by the father. Through the silence, he spoke. “Dulce. No siempre estaré cerca.” (Dulce. I won’t always be around.) He began, glancing at his son.
Dulce raised his hands up to his ears, as if that’d block out the noise. “No. Por favor, no digas algo así.” (Don’t. Please, don’t say something like that.) Tears already began to spill, rolling down his cheeks in the similar way of those raindrops.
He raised a hand, grabbing his son's wrist. Tugging it gently away from his face, he slid his rough hand onto grab it, “Necesito que me lo prometas. Prométeme que cuidarás de tu hermana.” (I need you to promise me. Promise me you’ll take care of your sister.”
The boy was quiet, wanting to tear his hand away. His head shook, though, in denial. “¡No! ¡No, no, no!”
“Dulce. No siempre puedo estar aquí. Eres su hermano. Siempre debes estar ahí para ella. Prométeme,” (I can not always be here. You are her brother. You must always be there for her. Promise me.) This time his voice raised. It was clear a lump had formed in his throat as he spoke. “¡Prométeme, Dulce!”
Silence. Silence filled the car, but it was taken over by a very quiet,
“Prometo.”
—:)
Eight years had passed since then. This time the boy was much older. His hair had grown out into more of a mullet style. He had a rough looking beard and mustache. His attire remained black, but he sat in the driver's seat. Dulce’s fingers tapped nervously at the wheel.
A girl sat in the passenger. Her hair had already grown so long. Somehow, the funeral attire seemed fitting. “No quiero ir.” (I don’t want to go.)
He gave a sigh, “Tienes que hacerlo.” (You have to.) Dulce wasn’t a good father figure. He couldn’t be. The boy was meant to be going to college, enjoying life. He was too young to be worrying about his sister.
She curled into a ball, not caring for the tightened seat belt cutting circulation. “¿Por qué? ¿Por qué tengo que ver a todos regocijarse por su muerte?” (Why? Why do I have to see everyone rejoice at his death?)
“Es tradición, y puedes dormir después de la ceremonia real, ¿de acuerdo?” (It’s tradition, and you can sleep after the actual ceremony, okay?) Dulce spoke, voice obviously raising with annoyance. He knew she had a point. It was bittersweet that tradition called for celebration. But that was just how it was. No one could exactly change that.
Silence filled the car. Dulce struggled to find words, perhaps a way to cheer up his sister. Yet she beat him to the punch.
“ ¿Me vas a entregar a nuestra tía? ” (Are you going to give me up to our aunt?) She cried out. Her voice trembled and tears pricked her dull eyes.
He definitely was not expecting that question. Dulce huffed, moving past the feeling that had formed in his stomach. “¿De qué hablas?” (What are you talking about?)
“Nuestro primo dijo-” (Our cousin said-)
He laughed at the thought. Yeah, their 30 year old cousin is trying to talk to some kid about that. Dulce stopped, this time. He felt his hands grip the wheel in slight anger. She’s a child. “¿por qué le escuchas?” (Why are you listening to him?)
She seemed to shrink, “Pensé que no querrías hacerlo.” (I thought you wouldn’t want to.)
“Bueno, yo sí.” (Well I do.) He answered quickly. Though in all honesty, Dulce had thought of just allowing his aunt to take her. But as he watched her face lit up, his choice seemed to change.
The girl seemed to bounce as she asked happily, “¿Cuidarás de mí?” (You’ll take care of me?) Her dull eyes seemed to gain a slight sparkle once again.
“Sí, lo haré. ¿Está bien?” (Yes, I will. Is that okay?) Dulce had found himself keeping a small smile. His voice was soft as he asked.
“Sí.” She kicked her legs happily, beginning to hum.
He melted a bit as he finally pulled into the church. “Está bien.” (Okay.)
The humming stopped, and the girl looked to her brother. “¿Lo prometes?”
Dulce choked for a moment. He was slightly in disbelief. “¿Qué?”
She repeated herself once more, “¿Prometes que me cuidarás?” (Do you promise you’ll take care of me?”
He swallowed the lump in his throat. It felt like his dad was always going to be with him.
“Lo prometo, Lizette.”