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 – “Abuela” – who refused to intervene. She stays overnight with her cousin Kelsey and Kelsey’s boyfriend Dace. In the morning, she goes to the hospital, where she meets her Grandmother, her Aunt Maria, and her cousin Lupe. Abuela insists that she look after her father, because no-one in the family can deal with his insurance issues and Abuela herself is now blind. Carmen goes to search her father’s house for documents, meeting her brother Joaquim while she is there. She finds nothing, but has to stop her search before finishing it. At dinner, Kelsey accuses Carmen of going after Dace, and Carmen drives off into the foothills where she spends an uncomfortable night. In the morning, Kelsey apologizes by text, and Carmen resumes searching her father’s papers. While she does not find proof of insurance, she does find a copy of her father’s will, which includes a provision expressly disinheriting her. Shortly after, her Uncle Augustin and his daughter Inés come to the door. Carmen has a long and revealing talk with her Uncle, who sends “Innie” out for food because she is angry with Carmen for failing to keep in touch with her.

Chapter 7: Scar Tissue

“Well, fuck!”

I’d finished going through the last pile Padre had tossed into my room – my former room – and I hadn’t found a scrap related to health insurance. Not one. Given that his stacks of paper had included pinche gas station receipts, it seemed inconceivable that something as important as insurance paperwork wouldn’t be in here somewhere.

It was 2:30; Uncle Augi and Innie had left about an hour earlier. I thought maybe I should find a way to get together with Innie by herself before going back to LA so she could speak freely. Our relationship was almost certainly beyond repair, and that was fine given my intent to shake the ochre dust of Kern County from my strappy sandals just as quickly as I could. Still, ghosting her – especially when I’d stayed in sporadic communication with Kelsey – had caused a hurt I hadn’t intended. She deserved the chance to tear me a new one before I disappeared again. And won’t THAT be fun.

I was in no condition to go back to the hospital until I’d showered and changed clothes. I detested being dirty, but the thought of using Padre’s shower, or Joaquim’s, skeeved me out, and I’d just have to put the clothes I’d slept in back on again. Both shower and a change would have to wait until Kelsey was home. Dammit.

Instead, I simply called the hospital and was informed that there had been no change in Padre’s condition. Then I called the “Buttonwillow” number that Abuela had used when she summoned me, and was unsurprised when a younger voice answered. “Lupe?” My tone made her name a question. “It’s Carmen.”

“No, it’s Gaby.” Gabriella was Lupe’s youngest sibling; her response sounded more wary than her original hello.

No welcome mat, I guess. “I’m sorry, Gaby. Abuela used this number Friday night; I thought I might be able to reach her.”

“No hay bronca,” she replied, polite but still reserved. “I’ve been living with Abuela for the past couple of years. I’ll get her.”

“No, no,” I said quickly. “Just let her know that the hospital says no change, and that I haven’t found anything new about Padre’s insurance. I’ll have to go to his work tomorrow and see what they can tell me.”

“Oh, okay. Sure, I’ll let her know.”

“Thanks, Gaby.”

“Hey . . . .” Suddenly, she sounded shy. “Is it true? You’re, like, a girl now?”

God, I hate my life! “Yeah, Gaby. It’s true.”

“Momma says you’re going to hell.” She spoiled the threat with a giggle. “But she says that about everyone.”

“Yeah,” I repeated, straining to suppress a sigh. “She kind of let me know that yesterday morning. What does your father say?”

“Whatever Momma tells him to,” Gaby said tartly. But then she lowered her voice to add, “unless Abuela says different.”

Some things never change. “Well, I guess that’s sensible. Listen, thanks. I appreciate you giving Abuela the message.”

Unwilling to let it go, she asked, “You want to know what I think?”

I didn’t, and I wasn’t going to encourage her, but there was no sense torching bridges that I didn’t need to. “No-one’s held back so far.”

“I think you’re crazy. That’s what I think. Fuck! Why would you want to be a girl? It sucks!”

I could tell her that I’d never had any more choice in the matter than she’d had, but she wouldn’t believe me. I didn’t feel like getting into a philosophical discussion about gender anyway, especially not with someone I remembered as a pre-pubescent noise maker with a love of gossip. She had to be in her mid-twenties now, but it didn’t sound like she’d changed much.

“Well, I hear you,” I said noncommittally. “I’ve gotta run, okay? I’ll probably see you soon.”

“Bueno. See ya, ‘Carmen.’” She giggled at the name.

Okay. With that task out of the way, I had to quit stalling and get in touch with my boss. The only way I could make progress on the insurance front was to go to Padre’s employer in the morning, and that meant I wouldn’t be at my desk like I should be. I let out a string of mental curses, then sat down to compose a text.

As soon as I pulled up Dwayne’s name on the phone, our last exchange jumped out at me. His enthusiastic, “Hope you’re celebrating!” And my cheerful thumbs up. That was just before Abuela’s message upended my world. Only the day before yesterday. Should have deleted that pinche voicemail without listening to it!

I typed, “Hi, Dwayne. My father had a stroke and I had to go up to the Bakersfield area for a few days to sort out his insurance. I need to be here at least through tomorrow, but hopefully back Tuesday. I’m really sorry.”

His response, mercifully, was quick. “Got you covered. I’m so sorry. Is he okay?”

I pictured the motionless, unrecognizable stranger in the sterile hospital bed. “In a coma. They’re doing tests.”

“Ouch. Call me tomorrow afternoon, okay?”

“Will. Thanks.”

“Good luck.”

I sighed and got to my feet. Dwayne had been good, and I hadn’t really expected any different. But not being at work first thing on Monday morning felt like a step down a path I did not want to take. Abuela’s path. “You must take care of this,” she’d told me. “Of him.”

Well, screw that.

With time to kill, I wandered into the living room. The furniture had changed — but not by much. The TV looked a bit larger, a bit wider, and a lot skinnier, but the recliner was parked directly in front of it, a solitary command chair. As always. Everyone else could watch from an angle, seeing everything distorted, but the master of the house would have the perfect seat. And, of course, the remote.

The same nondescript suburban wall-to-wall carpet I remembered. The same off-white paint stained with nicotine smudges in shades of rust and mustard. The popcorn ceiling, equally stained, with bare patches of primed Sheetrock poking through around the AC return. The patches had spread like fungus.

The long, low bookcase under the TV had been there as far back as I could remember. In all that time, I couldn’t recall Padre looking at a single book. A fine layer of dust covered each volume.

I squatted down, looking at the titles. Samuelson on Economics. The Creation of the American Republic. The Norton Anthology of American Literature. 101-level textbooks on calculus and biology. Janson’s History of Art. A book about the Spanish Civil War. Italy Under Mussolini.

I’d never thought about them as actual books when I was growing up – things that you might take out and read. That might whisper secrets about the world. Or, perhaps, about the man who kept them there, untouched, like some kind of a shrine. Their silhouettes — the patterns of the tall and short, thick and skinny, progressing left to right across two shelves – were like a woodcarving of a bookcase, unchanged and unchangeable.

Padre came in through the garage, looking tired as usual. Before he headed down to his bathroom to grab a shower, he poked his head in the living room. “Get your stuff together; Abuela’s going to watch you tonight.”

Ximo looked up from his game console and rolled his eyes. “Do we have to? All we do there is study.”

His reply was gruff. “You should study.”

Ximo couldn’t help himself, repeating an argument that he’d tried on me without success. “It’s stupid. Nobody uses this shit in real life!”

Frustration always made Ximo reckless. Padre wasn’t careful of his own language, but there were things he would not hear from a ten-year old. Crossing the room in three large strides, he slapped Ximo on his bare shoulder hard enough to make a point, though no harder. “Watch your mouth! You do not speak like that, much less to ME!”

“Sorry Padre!” Ximo looked both cowed and frightened, knowing he’d crossed a line and eager to retreat well behind it.

But Padre wasn’t finished with his lesson. “You think people don’t use English in real life? You think they don’t write things? Use math? Seriously?”

Ximo shook his head, eyes round as saucers, desperately trying to get back in Padre’s good graces.

“There are jobs for people who can’t do these things, and places for them, too. Jobs like MINE, you ox, and places like this piss-pot town! If you don’t want to be stuck in MY pinche life, then listen to Abuela and do your studying!”

Ximo was whimpering, tears leaking down his face, terrified.

For some reason, his reaction wound Padre up tighter. His fists clenched and he roared, “You hear me?”

“Yes, Padre!”

Padre turned to leave, but saw me in the corner, like the coward I was, keeping clear of the line of fire. Stabbing a trembling index finger in my direction, he snarled, “That goes double for you!”

“Yes Padre!”

“Five minutes!” He stalked out of the room to get his shower.

Once he was out of sight, I went over to Ximo and put an arm around his trembling shoulder. “Hey. Let’s get packed up.”

He shook off my hand. “Yeah. Like frickin’ studying did HIM any good!”

I rose, brushing my palms against my skirt, and headed for the door. I needed to get out of this house. If I had to drive around in the mid-afternoon heat for a couple hours, I would.

So, that’s what I did. But . . . Buttonwillow’s not Bakersfield, much less LA. Apart from maybe thirty blocks, it’s just farmland. A couple small markets, the Frosty Freeze. St. Mary’s, up on Main Street, stucco so white it hurt the eyes. I felt the urge to go inside, but it was locked. Mass wasn’t until 6, but when I was little, the church was open for private prayer all day on Sundays.

Different times.

I ended up back at the Frosty Freeze, sitting outside on a picnic table under the shade of a corrugated metal roof, nursing a milkshake and watching the traffic on Front Street. Modest economy cars and dusty pickup trucks, mostly. Unlike the ones I was used to seeing throughout suburban Orange County, these were working trucks. No sign of “detailing,” no gleaming chrome wheel covers, no monster tires. The truckbeds were used for hauling things. By the looks of them, dirty things more often than not.

People went up to the window, ordered, ate at other picnic tables. I didn’t recognize any of them, and I was pretty confident that I wouldn’t be recognized by anyone who didn’t know I was in town. Just to be sure, my face was hidden by both a broad-brimmed, floppy hat and big, feminine sunglasses. A little overdressed for Buttonwillow, but still, anonymous.

Another pickup truck. Older man. Sixties, maybe seventies. Light cotton shirt, sleeveless T-Shirt underneath. Work pants, work boots. Strong features, a fierce mustache. Weathered.

I remembered him from church. One of the Aguilar clan — a grandparent; I didn’t know which. But it felt like he could have been any of them. Any of the men who filled my childhood. The same look, the same clothes. The same unhurried walk. Padre and all the Uncles were all cut from the same cloth. There wasn’t a lot of variation in my hometown. Not much pretension, either.

I spent some time texting my roommates to let them know I would be delayed at least another day. None of us were happy about it.

A young guy pulled up on an old motorcycle and gave me an appraising look on his way to place his order. Early twenties, maybe. Sleeveless white t-shirt showing off solid muscle. He’d probably been seven or so when I left; if I’d known him, I didn’t recognize him now.

When he got his food, he looked around and saw all the tables were taken. He shot me a look, pointing his drink my way and pantomiming, “can I join you?”

The picnic table could seat six comfortably and eight if you really liked them, so I shrugged. Suit yourself.

He sat across and at the other end. “Gracias, Señorita.”

“Da nada.” I returned my attention to the traffic. I appreciated that he gave me space, and wanted to return the favor.

There was no way to tell, from our exchange, whether he spoke English as a first language, a second language, or even at all. Not uncommon here, though. Most people in town had some of both, and even those who mostly spoke English used some Spanish regularly — though there were circumstances where you wouldn’t. It was a habit I’d never lost completely, even though it was nowhere near as common in coastal Orange County. Here, I felt myself slipping into the habit even more frequently.

I felt his eyes on me and caught him looking. He covered it well, though, with a shy smile. “You aren’t from here?”

I smiled in return; I had no intention of being honest, but there was no need to be rude. “No. How ‘bout you?”

“Si. Yes. Born and raised.” Something about the way he said it intimated that he was less than pleased with the situation.

My smile deepened. “Then I’m guessing you know everyone.”

“And their parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins.” He shook his head. “And I know all their business, and they all know mine. Yeah. All that.”

I decided to be neutral. “Sounds like you have mixed feelings about that.”

He took a bit from his burger and chewed slowly, being sure to swallow before answering. “I guess so, yeah. I mean, I love them, right? It’s just . . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Yeah,” I said sympathetically, understanding in my soul all the things he hadn’t put into words. “It is, isn’t it?”

Something in my words, or my tone, earned me a sharper look, then another smile. “You sure you’re not from here?”

I laughed, more in response to his smile than his words. “This isn’t the only bit of backwater in America. I get it, believe me. But you can get out. Try someplace else.”

His smile faded. “I’ve got my folks. My girlfriend . . . .” Again, his voice trailed off, forlorn.

I rose, my drink finished. “Well, you have to do what you think is best. It’s been nice talking to you.” I walked over to the trash can and dropped off my to go cup, feeling his eyes still on me. Turning, I saw a look of sadness, of suppressed longing, shade his young face.

That’s how it starts. My uncle’s words from earlier in the day echoed in my mind. One day you wake up, and you’re in your thirties. Maybe you're married. Maybe you have kids. And then it’s not so easy, getting out.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I retraced my steps and put an urgent hand on his shoulder. “Ignore what I just said.” I spoke fast, and with intensity bordering on vehemence. “Go now, while you still can. It will never get any easier. If your relationships are good, if they’re strong, they’ll survive. You won’t do anyone any favors by staying here and rotting like a crop left in the field.” Without waiting for any response beyond the surprise in his dark eyes, I walked quickly to my car and drove off.

~o~O~o~

Showers are truly wonderful things. I overindulged, but I felt distinctly scuzzy after sleeping in my clothes and then sitting around for hours soaking up the cancerous stench of stale cigarette smoke. Even the cloying smell of Dace’s regular vice was an improvement. Sometimes I wished I could just disconnect my sense of smell. Or at least, sever its tap root into my memories.

When I emerged – reluctantly – from the jets, I left the window open, allowing the air to snatch the water from my naked body. With humidity in the low 30s, it didn’t take long. I actually regretted failing to bring some body moisturizer with me. Not something I’d ever thought about growing up, but Carmen Morales’ skin was more sensitive to dryness than Carlos Morales would ever have guessed.

It was still plenty hot out, and Dace and Kelsey were using the AC sparingly. I dressed accordingly. Boring taupe underwear, light cotton shorts, and a feather-light sleeveless top in some material designed to breathe. I spent minimal time on my hair and makeup, glad to have had the recent reminder about the lack of pretension in rural Kern County.

Kelsey was fussing in the kitchen, so I went to join her. Dace wasn’t home yet. When I asked, she shrugged. “He’ll wander in. Usually stops at the cantina with the guys after spending the day roofing.”

I thought about how hot it had been all day. “Hellish weather to be working with asphalt shingles.”

“Fuck yeah. Those bastards are, like, a hundred sixty when the sun’s out.” She was slicing up a chicken into parts. “But, it doesn’t hurt the shingles, so they can’t tell customers to wait.”

“What can I do to help?”

“You haven’t forgotten how to make salsa, have you?” She gave me a challenging look.

“Not hardly.” Much as I had tried to leave my past behind me when I’d fled from Buttonwillow, there were things that stuck. To me, the only salsa worth the name was made with Oaxacan pasillas, and the only recipe worth the effort was Abuela’s. As far as I knew, everyone in the family knew how to make it.

“Huh,” she said, unconvinced. “Well, the chiles have been soaking for about fifteen minutes. Why don’t you work on that while I deal with the rest?”

We talked a bit about nothing much while we worked together. It felt surprisingly normal, like an echo of the relationship we’d had, back before Uncle Fernando found out my secret.

She must have been thinking the same. She gave a chuckle, then grabbed a paper towel, wet it, and dabbed at . . . dammit! . . . a tomato spot on my top. “Sorry, Chica. I didn’t keep any of your momma’s frilly aprons!”

I giggled. When Padre had finally given up on Momma coming back, he gave away the clothes she left behind, much to my secret dismay. Of course, they mostly went to family, and Kelsey — who’d been in a girly phase at the time — had snagged some of the more frilly things. She let me borrow them, though, when we were alone at her house.

Eying her stained and somewhat ratty sleeveless T-Shirt, I said, “Not really your style anymore.”

“Nah. It was fun, but . . . it’s not who I am, these days.” She gave me a once over. “How about you?”

“I outgrew the lace and frills, but I still like the feel of purely feminine clothes.” I smiled as I said it, desperately conjuring good memories of window shopping with Lourdes and Katie out on Fashion Island. But my efforts to think happy thoughts faltered, and my smile cracked and broke. “First year or so, I just wore whatever I could get.”

I watched the car’s tail lights slide away, and waited until they disappeared before turning back to the white garbage bag they’d dropped by the door of the Goodwill center, assuming it would be picked up in the morning. I darted forward, all of my senses as always on high alert for danger. Maybe there was a guard, or just an employee. Maybe others . . . people like me, lurking in the shadows, might fight me for whatever the bag contained. Desperation made people vicious.

Sometimes, it made ME vicious.

I snatched the bag and ran, panicking as the stitch in my side emerged almost immediately, robbing me of speed I might need. Still I staggered on, gasping, trying to pump air into flaming lungs, frantically looking for a safe spot to open it. Somewhere dark, where I wouldn’t be seen. Where I could watch all the approaches.

The alcove smelled like urine, but I didn’t care. This part of Central East, almost anything that didn’t smell like urine smelled like shit.

Tears streamed down my face when I realized the bag held clothes. God, I needed something that didn’t reek so bad of grime and sweat, that didn’t chafe my skin raw. T-shirts! Underwear. A skirt. It was a drop of heaven in the middle of hell. Right then, I didn’t care what the clothes were. Men’s, women’s, big, small. Just that they would be, for a few days at least, clean.

Later, though . . . .

The snapping of Kelsey’s fingers by my ear made me jump. “Earth to Carmen! You in there?”

“Yeah.” It came out rougher than I’d hoped.

She looked skeptical. “I’m talkin’ to you, and we’re laughing, and suddenly you’re just gone. That’s not, like, normal.”

“I know.”

“That happen often?”

I shrugged and managed a half smile. “Define ‘often.’ Back in this town, though . . . feels like it’s a lot more often.”

She shook her head and, at a loss for anything to say, turned back to prepping the dinner.

I went back to the salsa, but after a couple minutes I said, “Kels . . . you remember that first time I called you?” I didn’t stop working, or look her way.

“You mean, after you left? Yeah. I’d given up on you.”

Our backs were to each other, and I hoped that would allow me to say what had to be said, some of the things I hadn’t been able to tell Uncle Augustin. I owed it to Kelsey, even if I could barely manage more than a hoarse whisper. “I never thanked you for that.”

“For what?”

“I was at a shelter.” My vision was blurring, and I knew it wasn’t the pasillas. It didn’t matter; the images in my mind were sharper than anything my eyes could provide. “I’d stolen a bag of clothes, and I put them on, and found an open restroom at a gas station where I could get just clean enough. I lied my way into a women’s shelter. They had a shower. Soup. And the woman there, she let me use the phone, but it had this weird dial thing and she had to show me how to use it.” I was rambling, as the story tumbled out. “I called, and I heard your voice . . . and all I said was, ‘it’s me.’ Do you remember that?”

“Ummm . . . I mean, not that, specifically.” She’d stopped what she was doing.

“That’s when you did it.” I felt her hands on my shoulders, and noticed that I’d stopped my chopping.

“Did what?”

“You said my name. Carmen.” I couldn’t keep going; the tears were coming in a flood.

Kelsey didn’t say anything. She couldn’t possibly understand, but her hands gripped like a vice, anchoring me in place.

I swallowed hard, then choked out, “Kels, it’d been so long since I’d had decent food, or washed, or slept. I looked like a junkie, though I stayed clean. That kind of clean, anyhow. Swear to God, I did. . . . But I was so far gone, I barely remembered who I was. I don’t even know how I remembered your number. When you said my name, I felt like . . . .” I stopped again, panting, desperately trying to get the last words out before my throat sealed completely. “I felt like you called me back. Like you were the only person on earth who could tell me who I am.”

Her arms wrapped around me and I felt her head press hard against my shoulder blades. “Jesus fucking Christ!”

She held me while I cried, and tried to get myself back under control. I am Carmen Catalina Morales, I told myself. I have a good job. I have a life. Friends. I will not let memory pull me back!

I. Will. NOT.

It took a minute, but I managed not to let the embarrassment continue. I gave an appreciative squeeze to the intricately decorated pair of anacondas wrapped around my torso, and managed to thank her in something close to my normal voice.

She eased her grip, but seemed almost reluctant to let me go. “You gonna be okay?”

With my “will NOT” still echoing through my soul, I spoke with fierce certainty. “Yes.”

“Okay, then.” She let me go. “I was afraid you wouldn’t finish the salsa.”

By implicit mutual consent, we talked about easy things for a bit. I told her about my roommates, and thoughts of gentle Lourdes and crazy Katie restored some balance to my wild emotions. Kelsey told a few stories, too. Generally humorous, though each had a bit of an edge. I remembered all the people she talked about.

When all the prep work was done and the chicken was marinating in the salsa, she got a text from Dace and her face darkened. “Pinche pendejo!” Her voice was low, but she substituted venom for volume.

“What is it?”

“He’s ’out with the guys,’ and I shouldn’t wait up. Asshole!”

I wasn’t sure what to say; from everything I’d seen, this kind of rudeness was just who Dace was.

Kels was furiously pecking out a response. She mashed “send” and lowered the phone in a clenched hand. “I told him I was cooking something nice tonight, to make things right with you. He knew it was important.”

“Kels . . . it’s okay.”

She shook her head and paced, looking like she wanted to punch something. When the return text came, it did nothing to calm her down. “Fuck!!!”

I didn’t want to intrude on whatever was going on between the two of them, especially after Kelsey’d gotten it into her head that I was after Dace. But she had been there for me — again. And she was hurting. “You want to tell me?”

“Bastard says me and my ‘hot cousin’ can kiss and make up without an audience.”

“Son of a BITCH!” My hiss got out before I could even think of stopping it.

Kelsey shot me an angry look, her fury at Dace spattering in all directions. Then, suddenly, her face fell and she looked tired. Defeated. “Yeah, he is. And that turd is the best I can get.”

“Bullshit!”

She cracked a smile. “I dated ‘Turbo’ Cardeñas.”

Wait, what??? “Shut up!”

“Swear to God. Believe me, Dace is an upgrade.”

“Well, durrr!”

“And even Turbo was better than Tomás Reyes.”

A memory of Toma’s face flashed through my brain, his eyes narrowed, mouth distorted, screaming something at me as I staggered, trying to keep my balance, whirling in the heart of a tornado of shame. “Tell me you didn’t date that cochino!”

“Oh, yeah, honey! Found out why he was always such a big dick, too — just tryin’ to make up for what God failed to provide.”

I shook my head, bewildered. “Why, Kelsey? Why are you giving all these asswipes the time of day?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Carmen!” She shifted from amusement to impatient anger in a heartbeat. “Look at me, would you? Forget the frickin’ teenage princess you remember!” She gave her tattoo’d right arm a slow, burning flex, and glared at her hard bicep. “You think I’m too good for Dace, or even dinky-dick Tomás? I’m a stone-cold bitch, girl.”

“No, you aren’t.”

She folded her arms and glared at me defiantly. “You have no pinche idea!”

I positively stalked over to where she was standing and hauled her prickly ass into an iron hug, ignoring her efforts to push free. “Yes, I do! You are the girl who accepted me, when no one else would. You are the woman who saved me, just by calling my name. You are the friend who held me when I couldn’t keep my shit together, just now. And I say you’re better than any man in this overgrown shithouse of a town! All of them put together!”

She stopped struggling about half-way through my tirade, and by the end I felt her arms come up, grudgingly, to return my embrace as she put her head on my shoulder, surrendering. “Okay. Fine. If you say so.”

“To quote both you and eloquent Inés, ‘Fuckin’ A, I do!’”

She pulled back, a look of mischief on her face. “You’re a genius. That’s what we need to do!”

“What?” Her wild mood swings were getting hard to track, and she’d completely lost me.

Breaking my embrace, she marched back to the kitchen. “Screw Dace. If he can’t be bothered to come, we need to call Innie. And have her bring the frickin’ tequila!”

Oh, shit, I thought. What could possibly go wrong?

— To be continued

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