On top was the headset. Luz's gaming headset, the big black one with the blue light in the earcup, the cord wrapped around it so tight it had kinked. She hadn't put it on since August. She hadn't been able to look at it and she hadn't been able to throw it away. Under it, wrapped in a pillowcase, was a spiral notebook with a green cover, the cheap kind from the dollar store, its corners soft as cloth.
Luz took it out and held it on her knees.
"This is his," she said. "Abuelo's. He started it last year. Like — last October. Around Abuela's birthday." She took a breath. "Today's her birthday. Did you know that? Today. That's why he came."
Her mother made a sound. It wasn't a word.
"He started writing stuff down because he was forgetting. He made me promise not to tell you. He said you had enough, you were working all the time, you'd worry. He said, Lucecita, this is between us engineers." She laughed, and it came out as a sob. "He called us engineers. Like we were fixing something."
She opened the notebook. The first pages were in his handwriting, the tall slanting capitals he'd used on work orders for forty years. TURN OFF STOVE. KEYS — HOOK BY DOOR. INEZ WORKS TUES THURS SAT NIGHT. LUZ = PURPLE ROOM. PILAR IS DEAD. That last one he had written and then crossed out and then written again underneath, smaller, as if he'd gotten it wrong and then realized he hadn't.
Then, about a third of the way through, the handwriting changed. It became round and careful and thirteen years old.
Oct 29. He put the milk in the oven. I took it out. Told Mom I left it out.
Nov 14. Didn't know my name till breakfast. Then fine.
Dec 3. Burned the kettle. I said it was me.
Jan 9. Went outside at 3am in his robe. Said he heard Abuela calling. Brought him back. He was cold. Made him tea, NOT on the stove, microwave.
Feb 22. Called me Inez all day. I just answered.