After her father has a stroke, Carmen Morales is summoned back to the Kern County home she was kicked out of twelve years before, by the Grandmother who refused to intervene. She has only kept in touch with one family member in the twelve years since she left.

Chapter 2: Kelsey

Driving up Interstate 5 was like going back in time, and not just because modern urban and suburban sprawl gave way to views that hadn’t changed all that much since the Spaniards arrived. It was also an unwelcome trip back through my own history. North of suburban Orange County, where I’d moved for school and work, I drove through the heart of LA itself – my first, and most brutal, “home away from home.” And then, mile by mile, I followed in reverse the route I had taken twelve years before, reliving that first, frightening night.

The highway’s “Grapevine” curls and twists, but at the northern end it straightens and makes a long, slow descent. The view opens up. On a clear day, you can see the highway running straight through farm country for over 100 miles, while at night the lights of Bakersfield are visible from twenty miles away. At the sight, my stomach clenched, knowing I was close.

Before I knew it – before I was ready for it – I took the offramp and headed west on Hagman Road. The night seemed unusually dry and cool, but maybe I’d just gotten used to living on the coast. I had forgotten the fierceness of stars, away from the smog and light pollution of the city. The silhouette of the coastal mountains directly ahead of me was sharp and clear against a brilliant starfield.

I’d grown used to city smells, as well. Rolling down my windows, shivering a little in the midnight coolness, I took in the very different odors of San Joaquin Valley farmland. A city girl would call it “earthy,” I suppose. To me, though . . . .

So many smells you don’t even notice until you get away. Fertilizer, partly; it was always a strong smell. But the crop dusters still did aerial applications of pesticides and defoliants. Other smells, too, subtler. Deeper. The smell of growing things, of rich, fertile soil . . . .

It was the smell of childhood. Once, it had been the smell of “home.” Even now, the odors, so familiar, were triggering an avalanche of memories. I shivered again, this time for reasons unrelated to the temperature outside.

I rolled up the windows.

Buttonwillow isn’t far from the highway that connects it to the wider world like an umbilical cord. In no time I was passing Mendoza’s grocery, where I used to work summers and after school. Closer in, the massive towers of the big power substation, then the baked dirt of the baseball “field” where I had discovered I had no athletic talent whatsoever.

I heard them behind me, standing well back from the “diamond” formed by four ragged scraps of plywood, our rough-and-ready bases. Naturally there was no bench, no baseline. I heard the snickers as I took my “stance” in the batter’s box and stared at the pitcher, desperately trying not to show any fear of the hard ball he was as likely to throw at my head as anything that might resemble a strike zone. Heard the frustration in Tomas’ voice as he muttered, “We finally load up the bases, and it has to be Carlos.” Diego quieted him, though I didn’t catch all of what he said. Just the end. “Gotta have nine players, Compa. Let it go.” My eyes smarted and I wondered how I let Diego talk me into this . . . again. But I knew. Of course I knew. Diego could talk me into anything.

Past the dirt field, a quick right, an immediate left, and there I was. Just another tract house, squat and low. A California ranch indistinguishable from any other, but for the street address painted on the curb in faded black-on-white.

I brought the car to a stop, shut off the lights and the engine and – superfluously – engaged the parking brake. The San Joaquin is so flat that even a ball bearing probably wouldn’t roll anywhere.

I sat for a moment more, gathering myself for the first encounter with my past. Taking in the sounds of Buttonwillow, such as they were. I snorted. If New York is the city that never sleeps, Buttonwillow is an overgrown truckstop that never wakes up. On the bright side, no one in Buttonwillow ever paid for parking.

Time to quit stalling. With a sigh, I got out, grabbed my suitcase from the back, and made my way to the front door of the place where my cousin lived. We’d been so close, once. She was the only one of my cousins – the only member of my family – that I’d kept in touch with. And I was so angry with her, I could barely bring myself to ring her doorbell.

As I dithered on the porch, the door jerked open. Light from within blinded me for a moment and I could barely make out the features of the backlit figure in the doorframe.

“Are you gonna stand there all night?”

I swallowed. “Kelsey.”

“You expected Taylor Swift?” She stood stock still, giving me a long look.

Her one-sided appraisal didn’t improve my temper. “Not what you remember?”

“Figures you’d end up with the looks. Bitch.” She sounded resigned rather than pissed.

No matter; I was annoyed enough for both of us. “I’d come in, if you’d get your butt out of my way!”

“Sure, fine. Come on in.” She moved aside and made a big show of waving her arms to urge me forward. “Shower your grace upon our humble home.”

“You make me lose my cookies on your carpet, I’m not cleaning it.” I stepped inside, but kept my attention on Kelsey. With the overhead light between us, I could see her features more clearly.

Kelsey hit puberty early and never topped five foot two. She’d been nicely rounded in high school – ripe curves in all the places guys noticed – but everything about her looked coarser now. Harder. Thicker in the waist, seemingly broader in the shoulders. The tangle of tattoos on her arms left no natural skin visible.

“Not what you remember, either?” Her tone challenged.

I shrugged. “It’s been a lot of years.”

“Yeah, twelve. And you never learned how to FaceTime?”

“Kels. You’re the only person I kept in touch with at all.”

“I know that. But you didn’t want me to see your face?”

“No.” I hadn’t wanted anyone from this damned place to see my face, ever again. And guess what? I thought, I still don’t.

She glared at me for a minute more before relenting. “Look, fine. I mean, not fine. But come on in anyway. I’m sure you’ll want to give me shit for spilling, and I’ll take it . . . a little. But don’t push me too far. I’ve already had to deal with the old witch beatin’ on me.”

She led the way into the living room. “Go on, sit. I’m getting a beer. You want?”

I didn’t, really, but . . . I needed to clear the air with Kelsey, so I agreed anyway. She disappeared into the kitchen and I took a quick look around. Big sectional couch with the long side facing a big flatscreen which was – mercifully – not on. Not much else in the room. It looked clean, but the lingering, treacly smell of weed couldn’t be missed.

“Here you go.” She handed me a Bud and plopped down on the long side of the couch, tucking one leg under her butt and looking expectant.

I took a seat on the short side more cautiously, sitting forward rather than leaning back, and popped the can. It was cold, it was wet, and sure as hell, it wasn’t going to get me drunk. All good things. “I’m sorry I yelled at you on the phone.” A lie, but a necessary one.

She waved her beer can dismissively. “I expected it.”

“You didn’t volunteer the information?”

“Nooooo . . . but, look. Prob’ly five years back or so, I said something to Joaquim at some family thing. Just to let him know, sort of, that you were okay, you know? Nothing specific.”

“And he told Abuela that you knew how to reach me.”

She shrugged. “I’m guessing. ‘Cuz that crazy bitch was sure convinced that I knew, and nothin’ I could say would shake her.”

“She’s not crazy.”

“Sue me. Anyway. One outta two isn’t bad.”

Kelsey should have known better than to tell my younger brother; Joaquim couldn’t be trusted with secrets. I couldn’t fault her too much for wanting to reassure him, but I was surprised that she’d thought he would care.

Kelsey was staring at my chest, hard. “Those real?”

“Define ‘real.’”

“Ooooh, listen to the college grad-u-ate! You sound like what’s his name – you know. The history teacher.”

Since the only history teacher she could possibly be referring to was as unforgettable as his imposing hidalgo name – Alfonso Filipe Olivares y Cortez – I assumed she was just trying to wind me up. I took a sip of my beer-flavored drink and said, “Cortez.”

“Yeah, that guy.” When I didn’t say anything more, she tried again. “C’mon, give. They’re real?”

“They don’t come off, if that’s what you mean.”

“So you did have surgery.”

“You want all the details?” I made sure my tone discouraged further inquiry.

“Shit, yeah. We talked about it often enough, when you were over at my place, wearing my stuff, and moaning about how much you wanted to be a girl.”

And hadn’t THAT worked out well? “Maybe some other time. Look, Kelsey, can you fill me in on what’s going on? I was too mad to talk when I called earlier, and all Abuela said in her message was that Padre had a stroke.”

She nodded. “Yeah, okay. I’ll want the tea later though.” She cradled her beer in her lap. “I don’t know a lot of details. Apparently he was out in the fields and just keeled over. No-one noticed for a while, though. I don’t know how long he was down before they found him and got an ambulance. They took him to Mercy in Bakersfield. Far as I know, he hasn't regained consciousness.”

“Jesus! He isn’t even fifty!”

She looked surprised. “He’s not? Oh, I guess that’s right. Next year, though, right? Anyhow . . . You gotta know, he’s lived a pretty tough life.”

“If you mean, ‘he’s made a lot of bad choices,’ I won’t argue with you.”

“Yeah, well. At least he’s not in prison,” she said sourly.

Ouch. “Sorry, Kels. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“It is what it is. Papi . . . .” She paused a moment, selecting her words with care that didn’t come naturally. “Papi was desperate. Stupid. But he never would have thrown me out like your Padre did. I wouldn’t trade places.”

My mind conjured memories of Uncle Fernando’s face – his shocked, horrified, saddened eyes – that terrible day when he walked into Kelsey’s room and found me there in one of her sundresses and makeup. “Juan must be told.” And my own cry, etched in my brain with the acid of my despair. Noooooooo! Please, No!!!!!

I found my eyes closing in pain as the memories hit me hard. I took a deep breath, then another, before opening them again.

Kelsey eyed me skeptically. “You gonna make it?”

“Hell if I know.”

I heard a door open and the sound of heavy footsteps, then a large, well-built man wearing boxers and a tank top wandered into the room. My heart lurched, painfully.

He gave Kelsey a look. “Gorda, you’re gonna be sorry in the morning.”

She rolled her eyes. “Dace, this is Carmen. Carmen, Dace.”

I’d known Kelsey was living with Diego Gutierrez’ older brother; she’d mentioned it in one of our infrequent calls. But Dace hung with a different crowd back then and I hadn’t known him. What I hadn’t expected, though I suppose I should have, was just how much he looked like the boy I’d so-very-secretly admired as far back as middle school. The boy who could talk me into anything. Who I would have followed anywhere.

Dace turned his dark eyes my way. “Hey. Glad I finally got to meet the real black sheep of the family.”

“Dace!” If Kelsey could blush, she would have, but with her complexion you’d never know.

I tried my best to put on a smile, hoping it didn’t look as sick as I felt. “That’s me.”

His inspection unsettled me, like he was looking for signs of the boy I had been. Of the man I never became. But he looked away before it got too uncomfortable, and turned his attention back to Kelsey. “Sorry, but you did tell me to remind you. Tomorrow’s a work day.”

“Yeah, okay. You’re right. . . . Look, Carmen. Like I told you on the phone, you can absolutely crash here, but all's I’ve got’s the couch. Diego’s got the other bedroom, and even though he’s off in Oregon for the summer, he was real clear that we’re s’posed to stay out of his room.”

“You don’t want to mess with Diego’s shit,” Dace warned.

I didn’t know Diego lived here, too! I stopped an involuntary shiver before it got out of hand. “The couch is fine, guys. Really. I’m not planning on a long visit.”

Kelsey uncurled herself from the couch and looked down at me. “You might not be planning it, but that old bitch might have other ideas.”

I stood. “I can hardly wait to hear them.”

Kelsey got me a pillow and a light blanket, and I lay down, my mind whirling with memories and worries. I couldn’t stay mad at her for long; we had too much history for that. But I had plenty of other things to keep me upset, and it took a bit before exhaustion dragged me into unconsciousness. I was sitting down, about to have a celebratory dinner, just hours ago. Amazing how fast life can go sideways.

~o~O~o~
Kitchen noises woke me up while it was still dark outside. My mental clock kicked in and told me it was probably around 5:30. Stifling a groan, I got myself vertical and headed to the bathroom.

I looked vomitous. Dark circles under worried eyes, and one of the worst cases of bedhead I’d seen in a long time. Plus, my shoulder hurt from how I’d slept. I needed . . . well, a lot of things, really. Mostly, I needed to get my shit together, because the day promised nothing but trouble.

I sat down and did my business, thinking with a grimace of distaste that I’d need to take care of my weekly dilation regime here in the bathroom if I wasn’t home in two days. There’s a stupid thing to be worried about . . . .

I’d thrown a bathrobe into my suitcase when I was randomly stuffing it, so I wore that to the kitchen to find out the order of the day.

Kelsey sat at a formica table with an egg and some dry toast, a mug of dark black coffee firmly attached to her right hand. “Morning,” she said. “Sleep okay?”

I shrugged. “Not really. My brain’s having trouble shutting down. You got any more coffee?”

“Keurig’s by the toaster oven.”

“Got it. Thanks.” I went over and popped a pod into the machine. The mugs were sensibly stored right above it. “Dace said you’re working today?”

“Yeah, my crew’s doing the weekly cleanup at a big accounting firm and a mid-sized law firm today.”

“So, Bakersfield.”

She nodded. “Almost all our jobs are there, ‘cept the big one for the Motel Six here in town.”

I thought about that for a minute while my coffee finished brewing. Unlike Kelsey, I like it white, so I found some milk in a fairly sparse fridge, then joined her at the kitchen table. “Kelsey, why are you still here?”

“I assume you mean, ‘here in Buttwipe,’ not ‘here in Dace’s house.’”

“Yeah. I mean, I know you two are an item, but you said he’s doing construction and odd jobs; that’s mostly got to be Bakersfield, too, right?”

She waggled her fingers. “Here, he’s the genius everyone calls to do their sheetrocking. In Bakersfield, he’s just another guy. But . . . sure. Most of his bigger jobs are in the city.”

I kept quiet and watched her drink her coffee and think.

“It’s a shorter trip from here to visit Papi. I try to make it once a week. But . . . I guess, this is just home, you know? I get this place. These people.”

“And here I thought you were dying to get out. Before my scandal, you were always the black sheep.”

“Yeah, well. That was mostly Papi, too. He was the wild child who went charging off to Fresno for construction work, lived ‘in sin,’ and came home with me.”

I snorted. “Fresno. You make it sound like San Francisco!”

“Might as well be, far as this town’s concerned.”

“You left out the part where he lured his impressionable younger brother up there to join him for a summer.”

“I kinda figured you’d remember that bit of family lore.”

“Seeing as how I’m the result of it? Yeah, I remember.”

“The old witch never forgave Papi for that.”

“Or for you?”

“I don’t know.” She gave me a thoughtful look. “She’s never said a nice word to me that I can remember. But she’s never said a nice word to anyone else, either. And she did take me in for a few months, after Papi was arrested and lost the house.”

“I don’t think you told me that.”

“Might have been one of those stretches when you disappeared.” She gave me a sour look. “Since I wasn’t supposed to call you, some news got stale by the time we talked.”

I grimaced again, feeling acutely uncomfortable. “I’m really sorry about that. I just . . . you know, dealing with this place really triggers me. I can’t even describe it.”

“I get the, ‘this place,’ Carmen. I don’t get why I do. I was always in your corner.” Her look was challenging, but I could see the hurt through it.

“It’s not your fault,” I assured her. “None of it is. Look, there were lots of good things about growing up here. I know that in my head. Family picnics, and riding my bike without worrying about being squashed like a cotton aphid. Target practice out in the desert. Swimming in Uncle Angel’s pool. Innie, with all her crazy ideas. You, more than anything or anyone. But, I can’t think of anything here, not even the good things . . . not even the best things . . . without all the rest coming back, too. It’s . . . Kels. I’m sorry. It’s just too much, most times.”

Her expression didn’t soften much. “Okay. I’ll let it go. But there were times I could have used you, too. Know what I’m saying? And I couldn’t even call you.”

Her hurt cut me deep, because she was right. It had taken everything I had just to keep myself from falling apart for the first couple years after I left, and then I’d focused all of my energy on becoming strong and independent and self-sufficient. I wasn’t there yet, by a long stretch . . . but I could have spared something for the cousin who’d always been there for me. I hadn’t.

I reached a hand across the table, palm up. Her choice. “For what it’s worth . . . I’m sorry. I should have been there for you.”

My hand lay there for a long minute before, reluctantly, she covered it with her own and squeezed. “Okay.”

“I’ll . . . I’ll try to be better. Really.”

Another squeeze, then she let go and rose. “I’d better get on the road. Check online to see what visiting hours are at Mercy. I assume it’s not for a while yet.”

I stood. “I’ll get the dishes. And Kelsey?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For everything.”

A smile played at the corners of her lips. “You’re alright, Carmen. You just think too much. Always did.”

“Always will.”

And with that, she was off. She disappeared into the garage and I heard her depart a minute later on a Yamaha that badly needed a little muffler work. Knowing Kelsey, she probably viewed that as a plus.

It occurred to me that I was alone in the house with Dace, and that made me more nervous than I’d like. I didn’t know him at all. Although I thought he might have been a senior when I was a freshman — wasn’t he in Emilina’s class? — I didn’t have any memory of him. But his strong resemblance to Diego was enough to trigger heart palpitations and a host of memories.

Still, as I’d said last night (or, really, early this morning), I wasn’t planning to stay long. I would just have to deal with it in the meantime. I washed and dried the dishes and spent a bit of time figuring out where they went. Then I rifled through my suitcase, got what I needed for the day, and went off to the bathroom to work on it.

The family would know who I was if they ran into me, or if I ran into them. I’d rather avoid that if possible, but I had to be ready to deal with it. And of course, there would be no avoiding Abuela; I’d known that even without Kelsey’s warning. At the thought of facing our iron matriarch again, I shivered.

Family aside, I wanted as few people as possible to recognize me. I couldn’t blend in; Buttonwillow is so small that everybody knows everyone who lives here and I’d be marked as an outsider immediately. But I didn’t much resemble the scrawny boy who left before his eighteenth birthday, so there was no real reason why they would connect a random outsider to the extended Morales clan. Outsiders came to town for lots of reasons, like the speedway. Mostly they stayed at the Motel Six, but there were other options. I just needed to make sure that I looked like a normal, unremarkable woman in her late twenties.

What to wear? Not a dress; not even to go into Bakersfield. Slacks and a top would probably be best, but I decided to push the envelope and wear a light cotton calf-length skirt instead. I paired it with a form-fitting tank top and a light, floral printed shirt top with three-quarter sleeves that I could take off when it warmed up. That done, I spent a minute repacking my bag; I’m not a fan of the type of disorder my hurried departure had forced on me.

I took my time with my hair and make-up. The hospital people needed to see I was a professional, so they would take me more seriously. It shouldn’t matter, but I knew enough to know it did. My shoulder-length hair was dark and full — my father’s coloring, but my mother's natural curl. I wonder where she is, these days?

I shook that thought off. I hadn’t heard from Mom since I was nine – no-one in the family had, as far as I knew. Wherever she’d gone, she’d taken my baby brother Domingo with her. He’d be twenty-three now . . . hard to imagine. But in my hurt at her decision to abandon me and Joaquim, I had never tried to find her, either.

If you had wanted me, you knew where I was.

God, this place was pulling memories out of my skull like weeds! I had to take care of this business with my father and get out before I reverted to the borderline suicidal wreck I’d been when the trucker had given me a ride south . . . .

I checked myself in the mirror. Good enough. Time to get going.

But I bumped into Dace, still clad in boxers and a tank, as I left the bathroom. “Well, damn,” he said with slow appreciation. “Don’t you clean up nice.”

“Sorry I took so long,” I said, feeling the nervousness fighting against my control.

He waved it off. “Don’t worry about it. We got a master bathroom. You catch Kels on her way out?”

“Yeah. She left maybe half an hour ago.”

He grunted noncommittally. “‘Kay. Did she say when she’d be home?”

“No, I don’t think so. She just said her team had two offices to clean in Bakersfield.”

“Yeah, fine. I was thinkin’ about dinner, but she’ll be back in plenty of time for that. You off to the hospital?”

“Uh huh. Soon as they’re open.”

“You got time. Want to join me for a smoke? Calm your nerves some.”

I remembered the smell of weed, and tried to keep my reaction from showing. “No, but thanks. I’m going to need all my wits today.”

“Don’t affect your smarts none, girl. Just makes you more . . . you know. Mellow.”

I was starting to get annoyed as well as nervous, but I didn’t want to set him off. “I might need to get angry today, depending on what’s going on at the hospital. But thanks for the offer.”

He just stood in the hallway looking at me. Finally he shrugged and said, “You do you.” But he didn’t move out of the way.

Feeling foolish and vulnerable, I squeezed past him, muttering “‘scuse me.” As I grabbed my purse and headed for the door, I could hear his low chuckle and sense his eyes following me.

Getting back behind the wheel was a relief. I switched my radio to KCHJ for the first time in forever, and pointed the car east. Let’s get this over with.

Fast.
 
– To be continued
 
Author's note: I would like to thank Sara Keltaine and Joanne Barbarella for beta reading these first few chapters.

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.