my temperature, listened to my heartbeat, checked out my ears and nose, and pressed a popsicle stick down on my tongue.
“Do you speak Spanish, Lyndon?” Dr. Estrada asked me.
“No, but my grandma does.”
“You have something called SDS. It stands for Solo Dios Sabe.”
“Only God Knows,” Grandma Raquel translated with a big sigh. “Vamos, Lyndon. Let’s wake up your Mom and Dad and go home.”
Even though Grandma Raquel had been up all night, she drove me home with Mom and Dad following behind us. When we got home, Grandma Raquel balanced her cane in one hand and held me extra tight with her other hand until I was safely in my bed.
“Why aren’t you getting better?” she said. For the first time in my life, Grandma Raquel didn’t look tough.
“Grandma, don’t cry,” I said.
“Lyndon, I went to my father’s grave and rubbed your favorite shirt on it.”
“You tried your best.”
“There’s one more thing,” she said, sniffling. “Tomorrow, I’m making you a lemon radish smoothie. After you drink it, you’re going to ask your Great-Grandfather to help you.”
“How am I supposed to do that? He’s dead.”
“You’re not going to get better with that attitude, nieto.”
The next morning, Grandma Raquel was in my bedroom holding a cold bottle of the lemon radish smoothie. I took three small sips. It tasted like sour dirt lemonade.
“Drink it all, or I’ll shove it down your throat, Lyndon!”
I drank the rest of the horrible smoothie. I gagged about ten times and my throat burned. Grandma Raquel held me close to her chest.