The Family Who Remains

The day Sr. Elicio Cortés died, Ellis cried more than anyone. 

Naturally so, as he existed as Elicio’s one and only son. Elicio loved him more than life itself. More than his first wife, and his second, and even more than the restaurant he built with his own two hands. 

Ellis cried. He cried and cried for days on end. The mere mention of his father could send him into a fit of tears, as if experiencing the day of his death all over again. 

“Will you be able to give the eulogy?” his mother asked in Spanish. Although Abraham could not speak a lick of the language, Elicio had taught him enough to get by. 

Days, sitting at a ceramic countertop, staring down at the cracks. 

“If you wish to learn the language, Abraham,” Elicio had said, “you must first learn to speak.”

“Who else would give it?” Ellis asked. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. He quickly wiped them away with the sodden tissue crumpled in his fist. “You? Abe? Papá bore no other sons. I must be the one to honor him.”

For days, Ellis practiced. He rehearsed every word until it rushed smoothly from his mouth, until he didn’t stutter, and didn’t cry. Abraham sat by his side the entire time, listening. 

When Ellis faltered, Abraham stayed. It was the least he could do for Elicio.

On the day of the funeral, the church bloomed with life. People traveled from every walk of life to attend: old friends, family, shop owners down the block, long time customers who Elicio had gone out of his way to make smile. The pastor paused at the sight of the crowd as he stepped outside into the morning sunlight, clouds parting on an otherwise gloomy day in an otherwise lively town.

Abraham watched as everyone crammed into the entrance. Some stood on their tiptoes, eager to get a glance inside, unable to see through the mass. Ellis’ eyes swelled with tears once more and Abraham wordlessly understood why as their gazes met. 

“Elicio Cortés was loved by those who knew him and many who didn’t. With Elicio, you were always welcome. With Elicio, you were family,” Ellis choked out, reciting from a paper crinkled beneath his fingers. His voice faltered. He met Abraham’s eyes.

“…How does that sound?”

With the thudding of his heart in his throat, Abraham nodded. 

Murmurs scattered quietly around the church, everyone finding their seating. Abraham sat at the very front next to Ellis, along with Elicio’s second wife, Ellis’ mother, and an empty chair in remembrance of the parents. They hadn’t passed, according to Ellis, but the death of their son had sent Elicio's mother into a frenzy, and his father wouldn’t accept it - at least, not by the time the funeral came around. 

Abraham kept his eyes on the people around him. Unfamiliar faces, aside from a neighbor or two. He ducked his head down, keeping his eyes on the floor and listening to the mumbles of a starting service. 

A whisper in his ear brought him from his thoughts. 

“Where is Elicito?” Ellis’ mother asked. 

Abraham blinked. 

Five minutes prior, Ellis disappeared to the bathroom.

I'll only be a moment, he had told Abraham, a nervous tick in his voice.

Always the talkative one of the two, Ellis’ nerves surprised Abraham. Though, he supposed he also wouldn’t know what to do if forced to make a eulogy for the great Elicio - or, perhaps even his own father, who hadn’t died so much as ceased to exist by the time Abraham became a proper adult.

Abraham stepped into the bathroom.

By the sink, Ellis stood, his face pale and his hands trembling. He gripped the porcelain to steady himself, as if he might be sick, but his shoulders still shook. His fingers flushed pink and red, contrasted against the bright white of the sink. 

“I can’t do it,” he wept. 

Abraham met his gaze through the mirror, wide and uneasy. Hands in his pockets, he stepped closer. His mind raced to find the right thing to say. The words fell flat. 

“I am not him,” Ellis continued, “I’m not- I can’t do it.”

Ellis’ breaths came out funny, a half wheezing panic as his hands went to his hair, tugging at the short, dark strands. A whimpered cry left his throat. 

Abraham wrapped his arms around him. He pressed his face flat to his back, taking in the soft scent of sweat and dread. Squeezing, squeezing, until Ellis melted back into the embrace. Only then did Abraham’s grip loosen, still supporting his weight as Ellis leaned against him. 

It took minutes before Ellis’ chest stopped its rapid rise and fall. Abraham stayed, holding him, the world straightening underneath their feet. 

“…Thank you,” Ellis whispered. 

Abraham didn’t respond. He closed his eyes, remembering the cologne which once belonged to Elicio as he kept his nose tucked in Ellis’ shoulder. 

His grip tightened, giving way to a silent promise: I’m here. 

***

The rest of the funeral went as smoothly as anyone could’ve wanted. Stories were told - mostly comical, mostly gentle - of a man who loved too much and didn’t fear showing it. 

Watching on, Abraham paid attention to the faces of those at the lectern, especially Ellis, whose legs wobbled the entire way as he walked down the aisle.

As Elicio’s brother told of their childhood, tales of everything his older sibling was, the Cortés laughed along as if they, too, understood some unsaid truth about him. 

Abraham knew little of the real man behind the stories. He'd witnessed a stronger version: the man with a boisterous laugh and a liking for business. The man who slammed his hands on tables and offered suits a better choice, a smarter choice; who declared himself king in every room he entered and was unbelievably loved for it. 

Elicio Cortés was not Abraham’s father. 

Abraham wrapped his mind easily around the thought, swallowing it. Accepting it.

While Ellis laid down to sleep, comforted by the forehead kisses of his doting parents, Abraham ran home to his real father. The man who taught him, frivolously, feverishly, to hunt for himself but also the man who gave him his first taste of something stronger than weed by the time he turned seventeen.

“This is not love, Abe,” Ellis said, sitting quietly by Abraham’s hospital bed after his second overdose. “What they have done to you—this isn’t love.”

But what was love?

Most of Abraham’s meals came cold, scraped from the bottom of a pot on the stove, but it meant his mother had remembered to feed him. When his father took him hunting, it was to bond.

Shouldn't it be the natural state for parents to love their one and only son?

Abraham waited with the Cortés as the service came to an end. They stood outside of the church, thanking those who gave their condolences, holding hands with strangers and sharing their grief. Abraham kept his distance, behind Ellis. When a hand was offered his way, he shrank back. These hands were not his to take. 

Soon, they became too frequent, too overwhelming, grabbing at Abraham’s shoulders. He retired inside.

Staring at the Mother Mary, he smoked a cigarette. No shame in it: all the pastors and nuns had either gone home for the day or were in the back packing up from the service. No one could chide him for smoking a cigarette. No one cared.

“Abe,” Ellis called.

His voice echoed across the church, bouncing off the abandoned pews and the stained glass above. He stopped by the altar. As he held out a hand - instinctively - Abraham reached to meet it, puzzled as something solid slipped into his grasp. Looking down at his palm, he found a large skeleton key. 

“I forgot to lock up the restaurant before I left,” Ellis said. “I just- with everything…I don’t know if I can…I don’t know if I…”

Abraham nodded. He pocketed the key as Ellis meekly smiled, squeezing his shoulder. 

“Thanks. My tío’s holding a celebration of life in his backyard - if you’ll come. I’ll send you the address.”

Both knew he would. Wherever Ellis went, Abraham followed.

***

Alone again. 

Abraham drove towards the restaurant, the sound of a soft voice pouring from the speakers of the radio. For a moment, he let his mind blank. Events of the day drifted by: a lifted casket, a tearful speech. The road reached out to greet him, tires rolling in a thrumming rhythm as the sun began to set. Town cresting the horizon, Abraham parked in a familiar spot, right in front of the building.

The restaurant sat where it always did, in between the bustling shops in the middle of town. While all the usual lights glowed from the remaining shops surrounding it, the restaurant remained dark and dim. Untouched, aside from the occasional lawman or wife collecting paperwork for the dead.

Abraham paused at the wooden steps. He stared up at the structure: once a large, bright mass of color, a vision of textured culture, even when standing on the outside. Now, sugar skull streamers swayed in the windows, their exaggerated hues faded. Clay pots and pans crowded the entrance, some blown over from the wind, cracking and dry. If he squinted, or closed his eyes, he could almost remember the beauty which once drew people inside. Perhaps the passing of Elicio had taken what was left of the restaurant’s soul. Though Abraham wasn’t sure if he believed in those kinds of things.

He took a deep breath, then stepped through the doors. 

The inside appeared exactly how it once was, minus the lamps shining warmth on all who entered. Familiar aromas of life filled his nostrils, leftover scents of an always running grill and mild cleanser, mopped throughout the floors and stuck in the concrete. 

A light cast through the cracks of the door to Elicio’s office, catching Abraham's eyes immediately. Not unusual. Someone must have left it on before the funeral started. The sounds of his shoes echoed through the quiet as he walked down the hall.

Door creaking, he peeked his head inside. 

The office remained empty and untouched. A large, dark cedar desk sat closest to the back wall, littered with papers. Multicolored Post-it notes were stuck to the top, small reminders written here and there in Elicio’s handwriting. Abraham skimmed his fingers across the wood, brows furrowed.

For a moment, he stood there, admiring the stillness which had once thrived with life.

He shook his head. In and out. No lingering. Ellis asked him to lock the place up, not reminisce inside it. 

But a paper caught his eye. Words in the center, bold letters addressed across the front page. 

LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF ELICIO CORTÉS.

Abraham flinched.

Why? Wills and testaments were a natural part of death. When his mother overdosed, it was the first question his father asked, constantly searching her belongings in case she left him anything worthwhile.

Abraham didn’t understand the importance of them, but he supposed he didn’t have a lot to show for his own life. He was a man of no wife, of no children, no achievements or great, big trophies he wanted to give to anyone. No family left. If anything, the little he owned would go to Ellis: nonsensical trash and mixed match drug paraphernalia from a laughable life. He would be surprised, from wherever he ended up, if Ellis kept any of it at all. 

But Elicio? Yes. It made complete and utter sense to have a will. The will wasn't what bothered him.

Along the page, he spotted his own name. 

Abraham held his breath. Without thought, the paper found its way into his hands. His brow furrowed.

He began to read. 

To my son Elicio Hernandez Cortés and to Abraham Foster, I leave all ownership and interest in my restaurant, Día de Los Tacos, in equal share.

I trust them to care for my establishment as my family who remains after myself, having grown within its walls, knowing its value better than anyone else living.

Abraham stopped. Stared. His mind raced to catch up with itself. Eyes scurrying across the page, over and over again, he read the words as if they would be his last.

As my family who remains after myself.

Again. 

As my family who remains…

Again. 

As my family…

Again, again, again. 

Family. 

A pair of hands grasped his shoulders.

The hush of daylight once setting through the windows had completely gone, darkness greeting Abraham's open eyes.

The hands shook him. A piercing sound shattered his ears. 

Wailing. 

Ellis, his thoughts rushed.

Ellis' face became clear in the dim light of the office, worry painted across his features, pupils small, filled with concern Abraham couldn't understand.

The noise didn’t stop. Ellis’ lips didn’t move. He stared and stared. 

A ragged cry broke through the room, raw and animal-like. It came from Abraham’s throat.

“Abe?” Ellis shook. “Abraham? What’s happened? What- what in God’s name is wrong?” 

But Abraham couldn’t answer. Hot tears poured down his cheeks, raw and burning as he cried. His hands found Ellis’ jacket and he held on. 

Family. 

He spent half his life as a guest in the Cortés home. 

Family. 

He spent the other half running from the word, picking up broken pieces and hoping it made him whole. 

Family. 

These were the final words of Elicio Cortés. These were his beliefs. 

Abraham was not an outsider invading his home. He was something else entirely. 

Another sob wracked his chest. Ellis pulled him close, wrapping his arms around him. Abraham couldn’t breathe; he buried his face in his shoulder.

In the restaurant they now called their own, he wept.