Page 60 of Hearts to Mend

“How are we doing?” he asks.

Rico, still grimacing from the nurse’s checks, grumbles, “Ready to get out of here.”

“Well, everything looks good, so we’re ready to get you out of here too. You’ll need to keep your wound clean and unbandaged tonight so it can breathe a little as it heals. If you take a shower tonight or tomorrow, don’t scrub the incision site. And no squatting or lifting anything heavier than ten pounds for the next seven days. I’ve written you a prescription for the blood thinners. Get that filled tomorrow and start taking those daily. You’ll be on them for three months. I want to see you back here at that point for a checkup. Oh, also,” he reaches into the packet of Rico’s discharge papers and pulls out a couple pages, “here are the images you requested.”

Rico stares at them, so I look, too, staring over his shoulder at an X-ray image of the device in his heart.

“Wow,” I say.

“Right?” Rico agrees.

“It’s so neat!” I bend to look a little closer. I can make out the shape of his spine, which helps orient me on the location and size of the flying-saucer device that’s plugged the hole in Rico’s heart. How interesting.

Once the doctor leaves, the nurse returns to sign Rico out, giving him even more paperwork. I collect his clothing from a bag in the cabinet by his bathroom and help him dress in the loose-fitting sweatpants and T-shirt he wore when we checked him in earlier today.

Rico is like a kid on Christmas morning, so excited to be leaving and returning to his family, able to finally relax, healed and whole. I manage to keep him walking at a gingerly pace as we head outside. I run ahead and bring my car around, then circle the hood so I can help him get in and strap his belt on.

“Those images are really neat,” I say as I drive through the dark—at some point during all that sitting and waiting, the sun set on us—and nod at the images of the ASD device Rico holds in his hands.

“Yeah, pretty wild, right? I’m not sure if the quality of the images will be good enough though.”

“Good enough for what?”

“For my article about the stroke.”

“You’re writing an article about the stroke?”

He harrumphs in agreement as he thumbs through the packet of papers the nurses sent home with him.

“When did you get so interested in journalism?”

“In Afghanistan, I used writing as therapy. I wrote about the experiences that hurt me the most and started submitting them as articles to the Army Times. It became a fairly popular column, like it was therapy for my readers too. Managed to get a few pieces into Stars and Stripes as well.

“When I got stateside, I knew I wanted to write. So I got a job at a weekly in San Antonio and took a lot of coursework at the community college toward a degree. When I moved here and went into Dan’s office with some of my clips, he hired me on the spot.”

“It sounds like you’re happy here, with work, the town.” I’m a bit embarrassed by the comment, like it shines a bright light on my insecurities, my long-held fear of abandonment, and specifically abandonment by him.

I glance over, and I’m struck by how genuinely joyous his expression is. He’s truly smiling, and in that moment, he’s the old Rico I remember. “I am. I love my job. I love this community. I love being close to my family and you. And Matty is happier here than I’ve ever seen him. I think back to when I left to join the Army, and I can’t remember why I did it. Everything I need”—he rests his palm on my thigh, and I revel in the warmth of his touch—”everyone I’ve ever needed is right here.”

I don’t dare look at him. My focus on the road, and I offer a generic greeting-card response. “Sometimes you have to leave to come home.” Right on cue, I turn into Inez’s drive and announce, “We’re here,” in a ridiculously loud and chipper tone. Once I’ve put us in park, I shut things down and hustle around the hood to help Rico out. He walks well enough on his own, but I still hover like a helicopter mom.

Inez swings the door wide before we can try the knob. I open my mouth to say my goodnights and take my leave, but she holds a finger to her lips, then whispers, “Welcome home, mijo, how do you feel?”

“Sore, stiff, why are we whispering?” Rico asks as he steps through the door, and he reaches for me, lacing our fingers together, pulling me inside.

I go with him. Of course, I go with him.

“Mateo tried to stay up, but he’s exhausted. He’s asleep on the couch. They all are.”

We come into the main room to find Rico’s two brothers draped awkwardly on the couch where they fell asleep watching television. And between them, Mateo is curled into a ball, with his head on a throw pillow and an afghan covering him.

It’s adorable. Clearly, their day of fun in the sun wore them all out.

Like he can sense he’s being watched, Manny Junior wakes suddenly with a snort and blinks his eyes open, getting his bearings. When he sees Rico, he leaps off the couch and comes at him with his arms out, a big bear of a brother looking for hugs.

“Gentle,” I caution with as much assertiveness in my voice as whispering will allow. “He’s just had surgery.”

“You called it a procedure before, but now it’s surgery?” Rico chides me with a smirk.

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