Carmen Morales is a twenty-nine-year-old transwoman who works for an insurance broker in Orange County while attending law school at night. When her father has a stroke that leaves him in a coma, she 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 spends several days there and determines that he has no health insurance, and Abuela convinces her to apply to be his temporary conservator.

The family’s reaction to the conservatorship application is mixed. Carmen’s Aunt Maria, married to the eldest of Abuela’s sons (Angel) vehemently opposes the application and tries to convince the rest of family to oppose it. However, Carmen’s Uncles Augustin and Javier agree to support her. Before returning to Orange County for work, Carmen meets with Andar Kasparian, the attorney the court appointed to investigate the conservator application. He questions her about her ability to do the tasks required of a conservator, as well as any conflicts of interest. During the course of the interview, he tells Carmen that the priority for appointment is spouse, then children, then parents, then siblings. Carmen explains that the only relative with priority, Juan’s wife Kathy, disappeared when she (Carmen) was eight.

At the end of Chapter 18, Kasparian calls Carmen while she is at work, and tells her that her uncle Fernando, serving time for armed robbery, has contact information for Carmen’s mother.

Chapter 19: Distant Relations

My shout of shock and surprise brought a couple of startled colleagues to the entrance to my cubicle, and I had to give them some non-verbal assurances that I was okay before I could return my attention to the court-appointed investigator. “I’m sorry,” I said. “You said Uncle Fernando has my mom’s contact info?”

When he wanted, Kasparian had a very soothing voice. “At the end of my interview, I asked your uncle a standard set of questions about other people who might have an interest in the proceedings. Because your mother – or, for these purposes, your father’s wife – would have legal priority, I specifically asked him whether he had any information about her whereabouts.”

He paused, so I prodded, “And he did?”

“Yes. What he had was an email address. He said he hadn’t sent or received any emails from her while he’s been incarcerated.”

“I don’t suppose he said why he had her email address?”

“He, ahh . . . no. He didn’t. He was willing to give me the information that I needed to have – when I pushed him – but he got a bit mulish after that.”

My head was spinning, and my brain was whirling off in so many different directions I couldn’t think straight. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to focus. “Mr. Kasparian.” My voice seemed to freeze up, and I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry, it’s a lot for me to process. But . . . why are you telling me this? You said it might affect the hearing?”

“I don’t think it will affect the outcome,” he said reassuringly. “Your uncle gave no indication that your mother had been in contact with your father at any time over the past twenty years; I doubt the court will put much weight on the fact that they are still – technically – married. But she’s absolutely entitled to notice and an opportunity to be heard. If I hear back from her right away, and she says she doesn’t object to your petition, we’re still good to go. But if I don’t hear back, the court will probably want to extend the hearing date. With the holiday, Friday is only two business days away.”

“How long?”

“It’s a busy docket. Probably at least a week. More likely two.”

I winced. We just couldn’t afford that kind of delay. “Did you try the email address?”

“I did,” he confirmed. “And I got an Outlook notification indicating that my email was ‘received,’ for whatever that’s worth. I haven’t gotten a notification that it’s been opened, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t been. Recipients can block that notice from being sent. On the other hand, she may not use that address anymore, or may not check it. Or my email might have been marked as spam.”

“Okay.” Focus, Carmen. Work the problem. “To keep the hearing on track for Friday, you need an answer from her by, what? Tomorrow?”

I could almost see him nod. “Yes; but I’ll need it by no later than the close of business.”

“Alright,” I said, relieved to at least have something concrete to do, and a deadline to keep me focused. “Let me see what I can do. What’s the email?”

“I’m sorry . . . I can’t give you that. Please–”

“WHAT???” All the emotional turmoil I’d been trying to suppress boiled over. “What’s the point in even telling me? What the hell am I supposed to do with that information?”

“I really am sorry. But I’m not permitted to reveal personal identifying information of any sort.” I started to say something, but he talked over me. “As for why I gave you the information – you can get it from the same source I did. And . . . possibly more besides.”

“More besides?” I wasn’t sure what he was getting at. God! Why can’t my brain function properly?

There was a pause on the line, and when he resumed his voice was less assured and more diffident than I had heard it. “I thought you might have questions about all this that were unrelated to the whole conservatorship issue.”

“Of course,” I said faintly. “Listen, I appreciate the call. I will . . . .”

I realized that I’d stopped speaking before I finished my thought. And then, it occurred to me that I had no idea how to end the sentence. Lamely, I said, “I’ll be in touch as soon as I know something.”

“Thank you, Ms. Morales,” he said formally. “I would appreciate it.”

I ended the call and stared at my phone for several minutes, desperately trying to bring some kind of order to my thoughts. As far as I’d known, no-one had heard from Momma in twenty years. Uncle Fernando told Kasparian that they hadn’t been in contact since he was sent to prison – if he could be believed! – but what about before that? How long had they been in contact?

And, probably more importantly . . . Why?

“Hey, Carlos – Wait up!” Kelsey broke free from a scrum of girls and jogged over to join me at the entrance to the school.
I stopped when she called, and when she got close I said, “¿Qué onda?”

“Papí said he’d be home later today. Can I hang out at your place?”

“Sure! Want to play Animal Crossing?”

The school was at the west end of town, but nothing was far. An easy walk. The back half of September was a busy time in town. The late cotton was being harvested, and shifts tended to go late. Padre wouldn’t be home for a couple of hours, and Momma tended to be more relaxed about play time.

As we walked, Kelsey talked about school and her friends; I mostly listened. School was a strange place to me. I already knew Kels and Innie and Lupe, but at school the girls seemed to play with girls and the boys with boys. I felt left out, and had a hard time making friends.

Mrs. Reyes drove by in her old VW, and I dutifully rapped Kels on the upper arm. “Brown punch buggy, no punch back!”

“Hey! What’s that for?” She had been in the middle of a story, and looked both mad and hurt.

“It’s a game . . . Danny’s older brother told him. You see one of those old cars – ‘Beetles’ – and you do that, before the other person does it to you.”

Kels looked dumbfounded. “You’re s’posed to hit them?”

“Yeah?”

“You made that up!”

“I didn’t! Swear to God!”

She shook her head. “Why are boys’ games so stupid?”

“I dunno,” I sighed. “Sorry.”

I knew enough not to call out when I opened the door; little Ximo took a nap in the afternoon and Momma got mad when I woke him up. But I could hear her talking in the living room, though her voice was pitched too low for me to make out any words. I poked my head in.

I was surprised to see Padre home so early, especially during harvest. He was sitting with his back to the door and Momma was on the couch facing him, her feet curled under her. Sleeveless, light blue top and white shorts. Her long hair was loose, and – even more unusual – she was smiling. Momma was so pretty when she smiled, but when I told her that she got mad.

Their conversation seemed to be peaceful, and there were none of the usual thunderclouds on her face. It made me smile.

“Hola, Momma,” I said softly. “Can Kels come and play for a while?”

She looked momentarily startled. “Oh, hi, Carlos! I must have lost track of the time.”

Padre rose and turned . . . except it wasn’t padre after all.

“Hola, Papí,” Kels said, behind me. “I thought you were going to be late today?”

He bent down and lifted her up. “Change of plans, Button-nose. I’m glad you stopped here; your Aunti Kathy invited us to dinner. Right, Kath?”

Momma rose. “I’m sorry – I wanted to, but this headache is just killing me. Can I give you a rain check?”

They stared at each other for a moment, then Uncle Fernando smiled crookedly. “Of course. You’ll be alright?”

She nodded. “Yes. I just need a little rest.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

My conversations with señor Cortez, and later with Innie, cast that old memory in a very different light. Momma . . . and Uncle Fernando? It didn’t seem possible! I told myself firmly that I shouldn’t read too much into anything – especially not flashes of memory from when I was six.

Focus, Carmen. Work the problem. With a sigh, I picked up my phone again.

~o~O~o~

Lourdes looked at me from across our small kitchen table. “Have you ever tried to find her, Carmen?”

I shook my head. “No. When I used to think about it – back when I was a kid – I always figured she knew where I was. Where all of us were. She could have kept in touch if she’d wanted to.”

“But as far as your family knew, you’d disappeared for twelve years. Maybe she couldn’t find you?”

“Yeah . . . but that wouldn’t explain why she didn’t reach out to Ximo. He’s right where she left him. Living in the same house, even.”

“You’re right.” She sighed and shook her head. “I can’t understand it either.”

Katie was on my left, nursing a Naughty Nurse. “How ‘bout now, though? Do you want to find her?”

“Unless she responds to Kasparian’s email herself, I guess I’d better contact her. But find her?” I thought about it, and couldn’t come up with a clean answer. “I don’t know. And I wouldn’t know where to start, anyway.”

“It’s 2024,” Katie replied. “Finding people isn’t hard. It’s keeping yourself from being found that’s hard. What’s her name?”

“Unless she kept Morales – I mean . . . I don’t even know if she ever took Morales – her maiden name is Parker. Kathy Parker.”

Katie let out a snort. “Jeez, that’s almost as vanilla as ‘Katie Johnson.’ Not impossible, if we have a few more details. But . . . do you want me to look?”

“I guess I’ve been thinking about this all day, since I got the call.” I grimaced. “Made it a lot harder to get through my afternoon meeting, too! But I kept imagining what it would be like, to see her again. . . . What I’d want to ask her. What I’d want to know.”

“Like, ‘why’?” Lourdes said, her voice soft.

“Mostly, I guess.” I took a drink from my own glass – water, in my case, since the headache I was sporting made beer a seriously bad option. “Abuela didn’t think mom was hard to understand. Just a pretty girl who got trapped in a life she didn’t want and wasn’t prepared for.”

Katie looked skeptical. “I wouldn’t trust what that one told you. Sorry, but from everything you’ve said, your grandma’s just a mean, judgmental crone.”

“Not ‘nice,’ for sure, but . . . not mean,” I countered. “She’d probably just call herself ‘realistic.’”

“People like that usually have an easier time seeing the bad in people than the good,” Lourdes cautioned.

I snorted. “I can’t argue with that. Anyhow . . . part of me wants to say, ‘fuck it.’ What difference does it make, now, why she left us? Ximo and me – and padre, too, I guess – we dealt with it. Lived our lives. Moved on.”

“But it still hurts, when you think about it?” she pressed.

“Yeah,” I sighed. “It still hurts.”

“Welllllll,” Katie said, drawing out the word. “You just tell me, and I’ll do some searches. You know her birthday?”

I chuckled. “I wouldn’t, except it’s a pinche cliché. She was literally born on the Fourth of July, which means I’ll be driving back to Buttonwillow on her birthday. I’m actually less sure about the year, but I think it was ’72. I remember she was a couple years older than padre.”

“Huh.” She thought a minute. “The email address might have additional clues.”

“Kels will pry it out of him tomorrow,” I said, confident of my prediction. She could be extremely persuasive, and she’d made it clear in her call that her padre was going to ‘fucking rot in his fucking cell without any visits’ – her exact words – if he didn’t cough up the email. But she wouldn’t be able to see him before 9:00 a.m.

“Were you surprised your uncle wouldn’t schedule a call with you?” Lourdes asked.

“Not really. I don’t think he ever liked me, and the whole trans thing put him over the top.” Juan must be told!

“Your family is Fucked. Up.” Katie took another drink – a much longer one. “Sorry, but that’s just the truth. Are you sure you’re related to them?”

“They aren’t all bad,” I protested.

“You say so.” She didn’t sound convinced. “But I’m not saying you don’t have good family members. Shit, you’re in it, so of course it does. But as a family, it’s fucked up. Know what I’m saying? It’s like, they don’t know the meaning of the word. What family’s supposed to be all about.”

“What can I say? ‘Disfunction’ is the only kind of function I’ve ever known.”

She shook her head and got to her feet. “Listen, let me see what I can do with just her name and birthdate. I help our investigators do internet searches all the time; I’m pretty good at finding people. That way you’ll at least have options. And a back-up plan, if she doesn’t respond to her email.”

I remained torn, but Katie was right. The information might be helpful, and I wouldn’t have to use it if I didn’t want to. Reluctantly, I agreed.

It took me forever to get to sleep, and my dreams were a medley of memories that turned into nightmares. Or maybe the nightmare parts were memories, too; it was hard to tell the difference, sometimes.

Before we both left for work, Katie told me that she’d found a bunch of potential hits, but a lot of them looked pretty unlikely. “The direct matches on ‘Kathy Parker’ and the birthdate are obvious duds. But there are lots of variations of “Kathy,” and who knows what last name she’s going by these days. Call with that email address if your cousin soaks it out of him.”

I dragged my way through a client meeting, feeling a bit fuzzy, but mercifully no-one else seemed to notice. By 9:45 I found myself checking the clock almost constantly, only to find that only a few minutes had passed. C’mon, Kels!

By 10:30 I was almost climbing the walls. To keep myself from checking the clock, I went off to the ladies’ room, then stopped at the coffee station before returning to my cubicle. 10:45. Dammit!

Just past 11:00, my phone pinged to announce an incoming text. [email protected].

Unwilling to let it go with just a text, I called Kelsey. It rolled over into voicemail, but while I was still waiting for her automated message to stop, she called me back.

“Hey.” She sounded worse than she had after getting pounded by Dace.

“Kels? Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” She didn’t sound remotely convincing. I was just about to say so, when she said, “Oh, fuck. No, I’m . . . God, it was bad, Carmen.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

“He really, really didn’t want to tell me. Definitely didn’t want to tell you. I explained how important it was to get the conservator issue decided Friday – how much your padre’s hospital stay must be costing every day he’s not insured – but he wouldn’t budge.”

“So . . . you had to threaten him?”

“Yeah.” I could hear the pain in her voice. “He’s . . . I mean. Fuck! He drives me nuts, and I’m so frickin’ angry with him. About you, and about . . . about everything! But he’s still my Papí, you know?”

I had a sudden image of Kelsey – probably nine years old – bawling her eyes out after a bad fall from her bike, until Uncle Fernando scooped her up. “It’s okay, Button-nose,” he crooned. “It’s okay. See? Nothing’s broken! It’s just a bad scrape, mija. You’ll be alright.”

“I know,” I said sadly. “Kels – I’m so sorry!”

“Not your fault,” she choked out. “Seriously. But . . . I gotta go, okay? I just . . . Fuck! I feel like I need to puke, you know?”

“Okay, girl. Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?”

She was still shaky when we ended the call, and I felt even worse, even though I knew the fault really lay with Uncle Fernando. No wonder she keeps dating cochninos, I thought, my anger with my uncle boiling over. Bastards probably remind her of him!

I shot Katie a copy of the email address, then pulled up the email app on my phone.

What to say?

Then I had another thought. Pulling up my call list, I hit the cell phone number Kasparian had used to call me the day before.

After three rings, he picked up. “This is Andar Kasparian.”

Interesting choice of greeting – since he would know it was me. “Mr. Kasparian, I’ve got the email address. Before I shoot off an email, though, I thought I’d better check to make sure you hadn’t received any response.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Morales. I haven’t. I also don’t have an Outlook notification indicating that she read it, although as I told you yesterday, that doesn’t mean she hasn’t.”

I sighed. “Oh, well. Had to ask. Will you let me know if you get a response?”

“Of course; I’ll do that right away.”

“Thank you.” On a whim, I added, “By the way . . . you owe my cousin Kelsey a drink.”

“I do?”

“Yeah. She had to sweat that address out of her father, and it sounds like it came close to wrecking their relationship.”

“I am sorry.” He sounded genuinely apologetic. “I would have given it to you if there was any way to do it legally.”

“Yeah, I get that . . . but it’s not much comfort to Kelsey. Anyhow, I’ll get an email off and we can hope for the best. Keep me posted, though.”

He assured me that he would, and we ended the call.

Well, fuck, I thought. No way to avoid it now.

“Dear Momma” sounded wrong, on so many different levels. ‘Momma?’ Seriously? I’m not eight anymore! And as for feelings of filial affection, or even duty – NFW!

I ground my teeth in frustration. Focus, Carmen! Focus on the problem!

“Dear Ms. Parker?” The “P” in her email address suggested she might still use her maiden name, but even if she did . . . . “Dear Mrs. Parker” sounded like it should be followed by a pitch to extend a car warranty. Pretty small chance she would read any further.

I finally decided I would simply omit any salutation. Screw it.

“My name is Carmen, but you called me ‘Carlos.’” Blech!!! I had less than zero desire to get into the whole trans thing with the woman who’d left me to deal with gender dysphoria on my own. Besides . . . I was convinced the right thing to do was to just focus on the problem that had to be resolved.

“This is your eldest child.” Yeah, okay. That works. Even effing Aunt Maria could agree on that much.

This is your eldest child. I am writing to ask that you respond to the email from Mr. Andar Kasparian, sent yesterday, by no later than COB today. My father Juan is in a coma and I have asked to be appointed conservator because he urgently needs to be signed up for state insurance coverage. Under California law you are entitled to object, and the Court will postpone the hearing if you don’t agree to the application in writing. If there is any significant delay, I believe it will be necessary to sell his house to cover his bills. Your son Joaquim still lives there.

I reviewed the draft. It was cold. Impersonal. But . . . what else did I have? Warmth wouldn’t just be inauthentic, it would be bizarre. After twenty years, I had no idea who she really was – assuming I ever did. And she knew even less about me. At least it was short and to the point. I told her who I was, what I needed, and why, and explained why it might matter to her.

What else is there to say?

Having cut the salutation, I had no trouble dropping all the usual endings, either. No informal “hugs,” for sure! But also, no businesslike “sincerely’s”, or “very truly yours.” Just “C. Morales.”

I looked at it again.

I looked at it a third time.

No.

Kasparian would have forwarded the conservatorship application to her; she would know the name of the applicant. I deleted the initial and replaced it with my first name. I am who I am. Not going to explain it – not to HER! – but I’m not going to run from it either. Defiantly, I added my middle name too. The name of the woman who was, and always would be, madre de mi corazón. Then I hit “send.”

It wasn’t quite lunch time, and given the amount of time I’d taken with personal tasks, I was going to eat at my desk anyway. There was work that I needed to do before I could leave for the long weekend, and I resolved to buckle down and focus on it.

It was close to 1:00 when I got a call from Katie. She skipped her normal greeting. “Pretty sure I’ve got a match for you.”

“Really?”

“Almost positive. I was right – the email address was the key. ‘KPDuty’ was cute, but it wasn’t just cute. There’s a Kathleen P. Doody living in Denver, born on July 4, 1972, who uses the same “KPDuty” email on her public-facing profile – it’s just a hotmail address rather than ghostmail.”

“Seems kind of thin,” I said cautiously. “I mean, where’d ‘Doody’ come from?”

“The woman’s married to a guy named Liam Doody, who’s a bigwig at an investment firm.”

“Married?”

“Claims to be, anyways.”

“Yeah, well . . . far as I know, there aren’t any states that allow bigamy. Anything else?”

“I don’t have a lot of details. The searches I’ve run indicate possible relations being a ‘Dominick Parkette,’ age 23, and ‘Colleen Doody,’ age 19, both of Denver. Interestingly, there’s also a ‘possible connection’ listed for a ‘Lucy Parker,’ age 78, of San Francisco. Any of that sound right?”

“I don’t know if I ever knew her mother’s name,” I confessed. “But she did grow up in the Bay Area. And . . . this ‘Dominick’ is the right age to match Domingo. As far as the last relative goes – obviously, I have no clue.” I might have a sister? Really?

“Makes sense. The only other thing I’ve got is that ‘Kathleen Doody’ is apparently super involved in the fashion design scene in Denver – serves on boards and shit. I didn’t even know there wasa ‘design scene’ in Denver.”

“Me neither,” I said faintly. “But, yeah . . . Uncle Augui said something about her wanting to be a fashion designer.”

“Carmen, I gotta say . . . you put all that together, and it sounds like a match to me. We’ve served papers on people with ID’s that weren’t any better.”

I couldn’t fault her logic, but I was having a hard time accepting it. She’s married? “Uh huh.”

“I got a photo of Kathleen Doody, taken at some charity thing. Not a great shot. Want me to send you the link?”

“Sure?”

My phone pinged and I opened the text. It wasn’t a good photo; Katie was right about that. The woman’s hair was light-colored, which matched my recollection. That wouldn’t mean much, especially for someone in her fifties. But something about the severe hairstyle, the features, and more, the way the woman in the picture was carrying herself . . . . yeah.

“It’s her,” I said.

“You sure?”

“Sure enough. Do you have contact information?”

She did, and she texted it to me. Likely address. Three possible telephone numbers. I could call her.

“Katie . . . thanks a million.”

The tone of my voice must not have been very reassuring. “You gonna be okay, Carmen?”

I took a deep breath. Then another. “I have to be.”

“Okay. I’ll see you back home tonight, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I told her, willing a smile to come through in my voice. “Promise.”

I hadn’t received an email from Kasparian, so she hadn’t responded to his email yet. Not his, and not mine. I told myself there was still time, but I set an outside limit. I’d call if I hadn’t heard back by 2:30.

But 2:30 rolled around, and I still hadn’t heard anything. I gave it another fifteen minutes. Then fifteen more. Still nothing.

“¡Puta madre!” I kept my voice low, so my curse wouldn’t carry. Sure would be nice to have a real office, I thought, my mind spinning off into senseless directions. Gritting my teeth, I dialed the first of the three phone numbers Katie provided.

“The number you are dialing is not in service at this time,” a pleasant recorded voice informed me. “Please, check your directory or, dial an operator to assist you.”

I snorted. Yeah. A ‘directory.’ Probably something they used to post on a frickin’ ‘bulletin board.’

I dialed the second number, and got an answering machine. “You have reached . . . .” The bland female voice was replaced by a powerful bass saying, “The Doody’s.” Then the female voice continued, “please leave a message . . . .”

I hung up. My message wasn’t one that could safely be left on a family voicemail – especially since the Master of Clan Howdy Doody probably didn’t know that his wife had never gotten around to ending her first marriage.

Third time’s the charm.

After the second ring, a voice said, “This is Kate.”

There was no question in my mind. None whatsoever. She sounded sunnier. Less stressed. But the same voice echoed in my memory. Be good today, Carlos . . . be good to your brother . . . take care of him.

Her voice switched to annoyance. “Hello?”

I couldn’t help it. My voice cracked. “Momma?”

Now concern. “Dom? What’s the matter?”

I cleared my throat. “Not Domingo. You . . . you called me Carlos.”

Dead silence.

“Are you still there?”

“I’m sorry . . . you have the wrong number.” It was a good try, but the panic in her voice absolutely betrayed her.

The lie snapped me out of my frozen state. “I don’t, and you know I don’t – mother. But I won’t argue with you, and I won’t bother you – you just need to check your ghostmail inbox, okay?”

“You’re wrong! I don’t know you, or anything about you!”

Now she was starting to piss me off. “Maybe try that one more time – you know, before the cock crows?”

“I’m hanging up now,” she threatened.

Oh, no you don’t! “Shall I call Mr. Doody instead?”

“No!!! No!!! Listen . . . I . . . I don’t have anything! Really! I can’t pay you any money. But please–”

“Stop!” This time, I positively barked. “Just stop. Stop talking, stop panicking, and just listen. I’m not looking for any pinche money, alright? This isn’t some sleazy shakedown. Your husband – you know, the first one? – had a stroke and has been in a coma for three weeks.”

I heard her gasp, but I kept talking. “Because you never bothered to divorce him, the probate court is going to want to know if you object to me being appointed as the conservator.”

“Court . . . conservator . . . .” She sounded dazed.

“Yes. He doesn’t have insurance, so the hospital bills will cripple him unless he gets on a state plan. Assuming he survives, that is – which doesn’t look real likely.”

“I . . . I can’t . . . I don’t . . . .”

“Oh, for the love of God,” I snapped. “Can you just open your frickin’ email – you know, the one you used to contact Uncle Fernando? And tell the Court investigator that you don’t object? We need the answer by 5:00 my time.”

“I’ll . . . okay. . . . I’ll look at it.” She still sounded dazed. “Right now.”

“Good! Thank you!”

Suddenly stronger, she said, “Lose this number. Understand?”

With that, she hung up.

Once again, I found myself staring at my phone, as if somehow I might find answers on a screen covered with icons. Twenty-one years. Twenty-two, this fall. And that’s all there was? ‘Lose this number?’

I thought of my brother, his eyes shadowed by pain that had been with him since that nice fall morning when his mother abandoned him without even saying goodbye. You and me, we were always the kids whose momma dumped them.

I felt myself tearing up. “¡Dios Mio! What am I going to tell Ximo?”

“Carmen? Honey, are you okay?” Gladys Brock – Dwayne’s executive assistance, and the unofficial “work mom” of the office – was at the entrance to my cube.

I nodded, but knew the motion must have resembled the opening stages of an epileptic seizure. “Yeah. Yeah. I’ll be fine. I’ll just . . . .”

I couldn’t think of a way to finish the sentence. Focus? Work the problem? My usual answers didn’t seem to be any help at all.

Gladys pulled my “visitor’s” chair next to mine and put a concerned hand on my shoulder. “Is it about your poppa, hon?”

“No. Yes. Well . . . kind of both.”

“Okay, Carmen. Take some deep breaths, alright? Then, if you want to tell me about it, I’m here.”

I tried her suggestion, then managed to croak out, “Thanks, Gladys. Padre hasn’t died or anything. But because I’m trying to deal with his issues, I keep getting pulled into more shitty family stuff.”

“Gottcha,” she said, sympathetically. “Listen, you’re a wreck. It’s almost three thirty and half the office has already tip-toed out the door to get a head start on the holiday. Why don’t you go home?”

“Thank you!” I wiped my nose, which was in danger of dripping. “But I can’t. I can’t afford to take any extra time off, with all I’ve got to do for padre.”

“Go on. I’ll cover for you,” she urged.

“No. I couldn’t do that.”

She gave my arm a reassuring squeeze. ‘You could . . . but I guess I knew you wouldn’t. We’re going to miss you, you know, when you go off and become a big shot lawyer.”

“Thanks, Gladys!” I shut my eyes tight, then opened them again, blinking the tears away. “I’ll be okay. Really.”

“Okay. I’ll get out of your hair. Just remember, we’re all here for you.”

I smiled my thanks, and she went back to dealing with the thousand other things she effortlessly managed.

I tried to work, and I did manage to get some minor, mindless tasks done. Nothing that required a whole lot of bandwidth. My brain kept wanting to loop back to her final words: Lose this number.

It felt like the time dragged, even worse than it had in the morning. I wanted to do nothing more than drive home and crash. Maybe sleep twelve hours, straight through. Without dreams, though. I’ve had enough dreams.

Just fifteen minutes more.

My phone rang and I stared at it. Oh. Right. That. “What’s the word, Mr. Kasparian?”

“I just received an email from that address. It’s not signed or anything, but . . . I think it will do.”

“What did she say?”

“It just says, ‘I don’t object to the motion.’”

“So . . . we’re good to go for Friday?”

“Yes, we should be.” He paused. Hesitated. “Ms. Morales?”

“Hmm?”

“Carmen . . . Are you all right? You sound like you’ve been in an accident.”

I found myself nodding, which was stupid. He can’t see you nod, idiot. “Yes. I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Oh, yes. Thank you for the call.” I hit “end.”

I stared at my phone and sighed. “Alright, then. I guess we’re done, Mrs. Doody.” Opening the app, I scrolled to where my recent calls were logged. The three entries for the 303 area code were at the top.

I deleted all of them.

— To be continued

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