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 padre (Juan) has a stroke that leaves him in a coma, she is summoned back to the Kern County home she was kicked out of eleven 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 probate court appoints Andar Kasparian, a Bakersfield attorney, to investigate and prepare a report on the conservatorship application. During the course of his investigation, he discovers that Carmen is estranged from Juan and that at least one of her padre’s four brothers doesn’t approve of the application. He also obtains an email address for Carmen’s mother, who disappeared when Carmen was eight. Carmen tracks down her mother and gets her approval for the conservatorship application. But her mother, who has remarried without ever having divorced Carmen’s padre, tells her to lose her number.

The court scheduled a hearing on the conservatorship application for July 5, so Carmen returns to Buttonwillow for the holiday weekend, spending Independence Day at a family picnic hosted by her Uncle Augui. Almost the whole family attends, and Carmen takes the opportunity to tell her younger brother, Ximo, the news about their mother.

Chapter 21: Hearing Truth

The proposed conservatee (“Conservatee”), Juan Rodrigo Morales, is a 59-year-old Hispanic male and long-time resident of Buttonwillow, California. The petitioner and proposed temporary conservator (“Petitioner”), Carmen Catalina Morales, contends that Conservatee is comatose and uninsured . . . .
 
. . . . I attempted to interview the proposed conservatee at the Intensive Care Unit at Mercy Hospital on June 24, 2024. I personally confirmed that Mr. Morales was unable to be interviewed. . . .
 
. . . . In a sworn declaration accompanying the Petition (Exh. 3), Dr. Vaanya Chatterji stated that Conservatee had suffered an acute ischemic stroke on June 14 and had not regained consciousness since the incident. . . .
 
. . . . indicated during my interview that Conservatee’s chances for recovery are not high. If he regains consciousness and his condition improves, recovery likely will be both long and difficult. . . .

The language was dry and formal. Bloodless. But the evidence was presented in such a way that the conclusion was inescapable. Yes, padre needed a conservator. And he needed one right away.

I was sitting in Innie’s room, which I’d commandeered (with her permission, of course) as soon as my phone alerted me to Mr. Kasparian’s incoming text. Most of the younger crowd were still hanging out on Uncle Augui’s patio. I could hear them through the closed window, laughing and telling stories.

I went back to the report.

Petitioner is the Conservatee’s oldest child. She is twenty-nine years old, has a bachelor’s degree in business administration and is studying law at Western State . . . . lives approximately four hours away . . . . works for a major insurance brokerage firm . . . .

I skimmed the rest of my bio. Nothing remarkable.

Petitioner appears well versed in the duties of a conservator, and is aware of the steps that need to be taken to secure Conservatee’s assets and apply for necessary assistance programs . . . .
 
. . . . expressed confidence that she will have the ability to assume the duties of conservator on a purely temporary basis, despite the distance . . . .
 
There do not appear to be any financial conflicts of interest. Indeed, it does not appear . . . .
 
On the subject of interpersonal conflicts, however . . . .

I thought, Here it comes.

. . . the issue is, by Petitioner’s own admission, more complex. Petitioner and Conservatee have been estranged for eleven years, and have not spoken to or otherwise communicated with each other at all during that time period. Conservatee informed Petitioner that she could no longer live in the family house shortly before her eighteenth birthday. Approximately one year later, while Petitioner was living in Los Angeles, Conservatee executed a form-generated last will and testament, in which he specifically excluded Petitioner (as well as his youngest son and estranged spouse) from any inheritance. . . .
 
Petitioner made no effort to paper over her estrangement with her father, and indeed provided the undersigned with the information concerning Conservatee’s will. Petitioner indicated that her primary motivation in requesting the appointment was that she had been asked to do so by Conservatee’s mother. However, Petitioner also expressed the hope that her father would recover, and that they would have an opportunity to repair their relationship. . . .

I stopped and re-read the section, then read it again. Interestingly, Kasparian made no mention of why padre and I were “estranged.”

The next section was labeled “interested parties,” and listed the persons Kasparian had interviewed (or attempted to interview) as part of his investigation. Abuela, Joaquim, Uncle Augustin and tio Javier supported the petition and supported my appointment, while Uncle Angel declined to be interviewed. Interestingly, Uncle Fernando took no position on the petition himself, but (to use the bureaucratic language of the report) “stated his opinion that Conservatee, were he capable of expressing his intentions, would oppose the appointment of Petitioner.”

Apparently Mr. Kasparian’s investigation didn’t turn up any friends or romantic partners for padre, which didn’t surprise me. The report further indicated that he had tried, unsuccessfully, to locate padre’s father and his youngest son (both named Domingo). In recounting his efforts to track down Momma, Kasparian wrote that he had identified and spoken with her mother, Lucy, who was living in San Francisco. Lucy – my other grandmother, I suppose, though I hadn’t even known her name – said she had no idea where her daughter was. And who knows? Maybe she didn’t.

The report concluded by going through the factors probate courts consider and setting out the relevant facts uncovered by the investigation. Kasparian’s conclusion mirrored my own: Padre needed a conservator, I was willing and available, and no-one else was asking to be appointed. Apparently Ximo had offered to serve in a pinch, but made it super clear that he didn’t think he was as qualified as me.

There was a knock on the door and Innie poked her head in. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah, looks like it. No surprises. Like the saying goes, you can’t fight something with nothing.”

“Makes sense to me. You okay?”

I thought about it. Nodded.

“Anything else you need to do here?”

“Yeah.” I grinned. “I need to trash this pinche room of yours. It looks like a frickin’ nun lives here!”

“I s’pose we could have one of our big ol’ fights, and you could try to throw my pillows at me or something.” Her grin looked more wolf-like than mine ever was. “But, I’d have to kick your ass, you know. Just like old times. And then you wouldn’t look all purdy for your hearing.”

“You’re no fun.”

“True fucking story. C’mon, girl. Let’s get some beer!”

I laughed and followed her out. “Hey – did Kels say she’d be late?”

“No. I expected to see her a lot earlier.”

I frowned. “Let me just shoot her a text.”

I did, but when I got no response, we went back outdoors and joined Ximo, Joanne, Lupe, AJ and Lucy, and all their chavos on the back patio. Innie grabbed a cold one but I begged off.

Ten minutes passed, and still no response. I pulled Innie aside and said, “I’m gonna go check on Kels, okay? I should be back in a few minutes, but I’ll let you know if it’ll be longer.”

“You think something’s wrong?”

“I talked to her yesterday after she visited her papí; she was pretty upset.”

She grunted. “That pendejo.”

“Yeah. Anyway, I’ll be back in a couple.”

I could have walked to Gomer’s place in ten minutes, but I had the car so I used it. When I got there, it was clear they were having their own family picnic, and Gomer — Anna to me — was in the front yard, drinking beer with a few friends. I didn’t see Kels though.

I hopped out and walked over. “Hey Anna — is Kelsey around?”

One of the weys Anna was talking to gave me an appreciative look that suddenly turned to shock.

I was shocked myself. The years hadn’t been kind, but I had lots of memories of Tomás Reyes. Most of the ones that stuck were bad. I cursed mentally. Fricking Buttonwillow.

“¡Puta!” he spat. “What’r you doin’ here?”

“Just hunting down one of your fans,” I said sourly, knowing Kelsey had been foolish enough to date him at one point. I turned back to Anna. “Is she here?”

Anna’s eyes were wide as saucers — wide with the recognition that had eluded her a couple weeks earlier when I helped move Kelsey’s stuff over.

Oh, fuck!

“You’re Carlos?”

“No, I’m Carmen,” I said firmly. “Anna — where is Kelsey?”

“‘Carmen!’ What a joke!” Tomás advanced toward me, his trademark sneer firmly in place. “I bet these aren’t even real.” Incredibly, he reached a hand out to grab my breast.

I batted his paw away just in time and stepped back. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

His second grab was more successful, since he dropped his beer and spun me around, pinning my back against his chest. “Pinche Puta!”

My vision began to fray and I felt the dark alley of my nightmare memories rising around me . . . Felt the fear that sucked me down like an undertow . . . the sickening stench of my old madness.

No!!!

While I still had command of my mind, I lowered my head, then rammed it back with full force.

He swore savagely, but didn’t let go. Before I could repeat the maneuver, he brought arm up to my throat, pinning my head. “You even fight like a girl!”

“I am a girl, you moron!”

“Tomás!” To my intense relief, I saw Anna’s father coming down the driveway, and he looked pissed. He might be in his fifties, but the old biker would be high on anyone’s list of people not to fuck with. “What are you doing???”

The arms that had me pinned released instantly, and he pushed me away. “It’s a tranny, señor Gomez. A puta.”

“So what? You think it’s open season?” The older man flexed the corded muscles of his arms and squared up opposite Tomás, smiling like a man who walks into a bar hungry for a fight. “Want to try that move on someone who can punch back?”

“I was just having some fun,” Tomás said, seeming confused that anyone might see anything objectionable in his behavior. I was pleased to see his nose bleeding profusely.

“You want to fight? Fight me,” señor Gomez replied, cracking his knuckles theatrically. “You want to have fun? Go home and play with yourself.”

Anna and the two girls with her cracked up.

Tomás flushed, but he couldn’t bring himself to face the challenge. “C’mon, Tammy,” he said to one of the girls. “I don’t want to hang with no trannies.”

One of the girls — Tammy, I suppose — shook her head. “You go ahead. I’ll catch you later.”

He took a step toward her and stopped, as señor Gomez grabbed his bicep in a powerful grip and squeezed. “Go home,” he said softly. “¡Ahora!”

Tomás shook his arm free, turned, and walked away, heading for a car parked down the street.

I kept my eyes on him until he’d driven off, then turned my attention to Anna’s father. “Thank you.”

“No one treats people like that at my house.” He looked at me and cocked his head. “You’re trans? Like the ones I hear about on TV?”

“I’m trans,” I agreed. “But I don’t know what you hear on TV.”

“Oh, we’re s’posed to be afraid of you all. Like you’ll take over the world!” He chuckled, obviously amused at the thought.

I smiled. “That wouldn’t be my first choice.”

“You’re Kelsey’s amiga,the one who helped her move in?”

“Sí, señor.”

He grew serious. “You talk to her. I don’t want that pot head coming around here. Gutierrez. Nothing but trouble.”

Oh, Kelsey! My heart sank like a rock. “He’s been here?”

He nodded. “I want it to stop. Now, I gotta go deal with the grill. Sorry for the hassle.”

As he headed back to the house, I looked at Anna. “Is she upstairs?”

She shook her head. “She went out last night. With him. Didn’t come home.”

“Has it happened before?”

She bit her lip, but then nodded.

I swore softly, then said, “thanks. If you see her before I do, could you ask her to call me?”

I got back in my car, then slowly drove away. But I couldn’t delay very long, since the house where Dace lived was so close. Of course it was. Frickin’ Buttonwillow.

The garage door was open, and to my surprise, Kelsey was there, alone, doing something with her Yamaha. I parked and got out.

She looked up, and our eyes locked. I saw pain. Hurt. Shame. And, worst of all, defiance.

She took a step toward me, then another, then stopped. Slowly and deliberately, she reached up, grabbed the handle of the garage door, and brought it sliding down. Shutting it in my face.

~o~O~o~

I didn’t have the heart to return to the picnic, and rationalized heading over to the hotel to check in by telling myself it was winding down anyway. I shot Innie a text to let her know.

So an hour later I was down at the pool. This time I had it to myself; I guess everyone else had someplace better to be. I teared up, thinking of my swim when Kels was here. How I thought — how I told myself! — that I could save her.

This time I just dove right in and started swimming laps, not giving a single stray fuck that my form was even worse than usual. What I lacked in grace and skill I made up with in fury, feeling the need to exhaust myself. All I had to do was chop at the water with my arms and breathe now and then.

“I don’t understand, Sister.” I kept my eyes lowered, focusing them on chopping vegetables. “He beat her. Broke her arm! How could you let her go back to him?”

“How could I stop her?” Sister Catalina’s voice was soft, but somehow still strong.

“She would be safer if we locked her in her room!”

“I’m not a jailer, Carmen.”

“Tell her she can’t come back if she leaves?”

“Would you want me to say that? To anyone?”

Through my tears, I shook my head, defeated. “No.”

“I’m glad. If she did not know she could return, she would be even more trapped, even more in that man’s power.”

“I know,” I admitted. “But I just hate that there wasn’t anything we could do. Nothing we could say that would change her mind.”

“It’s not her mind that needs convincing.”

“But how could she love that . . . that horror?”

“One of the great mysteries of the universe,” she agreed, her tone uncharacteristically dry. “Perhaps because she has convinced herself that he loves her.”

“But . . . who doesn’t?” I asked, bewildered. “Alicia’s pretty. Kind. Never fights or gets angry. The sweetest girl . . . .”

“And yet, she is blind to all of that.”

“How can she be?”

Sister gently raised my chin up, forcing my eyes to meet hers. “Ask instead, how can you be?”

I was hacking at the water now, my legs scissoring maniacally and my breath coming in sobs. When I touched the edge and turned to make another lap, someone reached down and grabbed my shoulder.

“Are you trying to murder a swimming pool?” Innie asked. “It won’t work.”

I turned around slowly, panting from my exertions. Innie was kneeling by the pool, and Ximo loomed over her, looking worried.

When he saw that he had my attention, he said, “What happened?”

I shook my head, unable to speak.

Ximo took a knee, reached down to put a hand under each of my arm pits, and effortlessly pulled me out of the water as he got back to his feet. Rather than trust me to stand, he wrapped me in a hug. “It’s okay, ’mana. We’ve got you.”

To my surprise and embarrassment, I lost it. I buried my head against his shoulder and wept.

It took them a while to get me calmed down, and even longer to get the story out of me. By the time I finished, Ximo was dry again and I almost was.

“That chica doesn’t have the sense she was born with,” Innie growled. “Jesus!”

“It wasn’t about you, Carmen,” Ximo insisted. “Gomer said last night wasn’t the first time.”

“I know. I just can’t help thinking . . . she was so hurt, yesterday.”

Innie made a rude noise.

“It doesn’t mean she’ll stay with him.” Ximo was trying to sound optimistic.

“If he wants her, she’ll be there.”

“You can’t know that!”

I reached over and squeezed his hand gently. “I can, though. I’ll never understand it, ’mano. But I’ve seen it. That cochino gives a whistle, and she’ll crawl over broken glass to go back.”

“No way! Kelsey’s tough!”

I smiled sadly, and said “maybe.” I’d caused Ximo enough distress for one day.

But I didn’t believe it.

~o~O~o~

The probate court in Bakersfield shared space with the Juvenile Justice Division of the Superior Court — a hulking, modern monstrosity of a building in a less-than-great part of town. At my request, Ximo took the morning off from work to attend, and he’d brought Abuela with him. To my surprise, Andar Kasparian was also present.

“I didn’t think you were required to be present in person,” I told him after saying good morning. He and I were alone; Ximo had already taken Abuela into the hearing room.

“We aren’t, and we typically don’t. But your application was unusual, so I thought it would be a good idea.”

“I noticed that your report didn’t mention that I’m trans.”

“Under California law, that fact should have no bearing on the court’s analysis.” His voice was controlled. Too controlled.

What aren’t you telling me, Mr. Kasparian?

That was the sort of question he probably wouldn’t answer, so I said, “even though it’s the reason my father and I haven’t spoken in eleven years?”

“I considered the fact of your estrangement to be relevant; the reason is immaterial.”

I turned his odd choice of phrase over in my head, and reached a conclusion I didn’t much like. “You think the court might not share your view about that?”

He grimaced, then said, “Carmen — be careful in there.”

I nodded. “I will. And . . . thank you.”

He held the door for me, and we walked in.

The calendar for the morning was full, and we had to sit through three other matters before ours was called. The judge, an Anglo woman who looked like she was in her mid-forties, dealt with the first two matters quickly and — as far as I could tell — sensibly.

The third matter took longer. A woman was challenging the provisions of her father’s will that gave half the estate to her brother, on the grounds of fraud. She claimed that her brother had waited to come out as gay and marry his now-husband until after the father’s dementia was far advanced. “He would never have given Cal a thing — not a thing! — if he had known!”

The matter seemed straightforward. The father had never changed his will in twenty years, and no superseding will had ever been made, much less executed. The sister provided lots of evidence that the father had been adamantly opposed to what she called the “gay agenda,” but no evidence that his views about that would have caused him to modify his will.

Yet it seemed to me, the more I listened, that the judge was far more inclined to sharply question the brother, while her tone toward the sister was surprisingly sympathetic. Ximo noticed it too; after a particularly bad series of questions, he lowered his head and whispered, “¡aguas!” After hearing all sides, the judge said she would issue a ruling within the month.

Then it was my turn. I got sworn in and seated, and the judge started with her questions.

“Ms. Morales, I’ve read your application and the investigator’s report, and I’m inclined to grant your application. It certainly seems that your father needs a conservator, and you appear to have a good understanding of the tasks that need to be done right away. But I’m very troubled by the fact that you have had no contact with your father for eleven years and that you didn’t part on good terms. The record suggests that he wouldn’t want to be placed in your care. What can you tell me about that?”

Straight to the point! “Honestly, your honor, I don’t know if I can speak to what he would think today. Eleven years is a long time, and the last time he saw me, I was seventeen. I’d like to think we could do better now, but I’ll only find out if I’m right about that if he recovers.”

“I see.” She leaned back, studying me, and from her expression it seemed like I hadn’t said anything that would alleviate her worry. “Without getting into the details of your family dispute, have the circumstances that lead to the break between you and your father changed?”

Apart from breasts and a vagina? Hmmm. “No, your honor.”

That didn’t seem to help her either, which wasn’t really surprising. She thought a moment more, then grimaced. “Alright, I suppose I’ll have to ask: what was your argument about? But please — I don’t need a dissertation!”

Well, at least I can be brief! “I’m trans.” I’d promised myself, and I’d taken an oath. Nothing but the truth.

She did a fair job hiding her reaction, but Kasparian’s remarks and her questions to the gay brother in the prior case had me primed to notice the slight narrowing of her eyes, the infinitesimal pursing of her lips.

The silence stretched a little longer before she cleared her throat. “He didn’t approve?”

I have no daughter. And YOU are not my son!

“No, your honor.”

“Was his objection religious in nature?”

“He didn’t give an explanation, your honor, but I don’t think my father was very religious.”

“No?”

“He took us to church, but it wasn’t something he ever talked about.” I shrugged. “It was part of our culture.”

“So, he attended church regularly, and his objection to your lifestyle choice might or might not have been religious in nature? Is that fair?”

“With respect, your honor, I would not characterize being trans as a ‘lifestyle choice.’ And I can’t tell you whether he still attends church.”

Now the lips were definitely pursed. Well, too bad! Lifestyle choice, indeed!

“You have no reason to believe he has changed his opinion of you since you last spoke?”

“No, your honor.”

“I see.” She tapped her thumb nail against her front teeth, appearing undecided. “Ms. Morales, I have to admit I’m torn. It’s clear your father needs a conservator appointed right away, but I’m very reluctant to appoint someone whom the conservatee would object to, were he able to do so. Do you have any additional evidence I should consider? Any other testimony?”

It is what it is. “No, your honor.”

A dry voice behind me said, “I want to speak.” Abuela.

The judge looked past me. “I’m sorry, you are?”

“Juan Morales is my son.”

“Then, yes, I would very much like to hear from you. Ms. Morales, you may step down.”

Ximo helped Abuela get to the witness chair — the hearing was informal, so there was no “witness stand” — and she sat down.

The clerk said, “Please state your full name for the record, first, middle, and last.”

“Ameyalli Santiago. I have no middle name.” Her tone said, wholly without words, that she had no use for one, either.

“Do you swear or affirm that the testimony you shall give will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

“I swear it.”

“Ms. Santiago . . . “. The judge paused. “Would you prefer Mrs?”

“I don’t care.”

“I . . . see. Well . . . thank you for agreeing to testify. The investigator indicated that you support the petition that your . . . that Ms. Morales . . . has filed. Is that correct?”

“Of course.”

“Ah . . . there’s an indication that you asked Ms. Morales to serve as the temporary conservator. Is that right?”

“I did.”

“Can I ask why?”

“You can.” Abuela’s face was expressionless.

It took a moment for the judge to realize that Abuela did not intend to say more without prodding. “Right. Please explain why you wanted Ms. Morales to serve as the conservator.”

“She is Juan’s eldest, and she is competent.”

“Surely there are other family members who could serve, who your son would not object to?”

“I haven’t heard him objecting.”

“Do you have any reason to believe that your son’s opinion of Ms. Morales changed since he sent her away?”

“My son has made plenty of mistakes, but he isn’t an idiot.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not following you.” The judge didn’t sound remotely sorry . . . but Abuela’s dry, implacable delivery was throwing her off.

“Without the doctors, he dies, but they will take everything. His daughter can help. Only an idiot would say ‘no’ . . . or maybe a fanatic. He isn’t either.”

“You don’t think he would have religious objections?”

“Juan? Religious? No.”

“Ms. Morales testified that he went to church.”

“He did that for the children.”

“You haven’t seen him in church more recently?”

Abuela smiled without humor. “No.”

“I could appoint another family member, though. Your grandson, ah . . . Joaquim. Or even yourself.”

“Why?”

“Well, but . . . why not? At least we don’t have reason to think your son would object.”

“We have discussed this. Joaquim and I agree. Carmen is better suited. Nothing else matters.”

“But what would your son want?”

“Who knows? You can only guess. Carmen can only guess. I can. But we don’t know and he can’t say. Why not just do the sensible thing?”

“I see . . . . Well, thank you, Ms. Santiago. You’ve been very, ah . . . helpful. Ms. Morales?”

I stood. “Yes, your honor?”

“Despite my misgivings, I am granting your application and appointing you as temporary conservator for your father, Juan Morales, for a period of thirty days. I will consider adding an additional thirty days to that if needed, but I expect to see an application for a conservator to serve indefinitely by the end of next week. Understand that this court will carefully scrutinize all expenses you submit with respect to your execution of the duties you are performing.”

I gritted my teeth and said, “Thank you, your honor.”

“Is there anything else?”

“Would it be possible to get the signed orders this morning, your honor? I would like to get started on my work before banks close for the weekend.”

“See the clerk after we adjourn, Ms. Morales.” She banged her gavel. “So ordered. Next?”

Abuela, Ximo and I made our way out of the hearing room.

A moment later, Kasparian joined us in the hallway. “That was gutsy.”

I shook my head. “Not my job to say what’s relevant. And I’m done hiding who and what I am.”

He smiled crookedly. “I do admire your honesty, Ms. Morales. And your courage. But without your testimony, Señora Santiago, I think Judge Petrey would have denied the application.”

“Then she’s a fool,” Abuela pronounced.

He shook his head. “No; she’s smart, she gets right to the point, and she doesn’t sit on filings. But she’s got her biases, just like they all do. Like we all do, I suppose.”

“A religious nut?” Ximo asked.

“Oddly enough, no. Not as far as I can tell. But she’s firmly committed to the idea that people’s religious views should be respected — even when they might seem like bigotry to someone else.”

Abuela was unimpressed. “A fanatic.”

“Will you be appointed to investigate the indefinite conservatorship application we’ll file next week?” I asked.

“Probably not.” Kasparian lifted a shoulder. “The judge will know that I deliberately left out the fact that you’re trans, and while she won’t be able to fault my reasoning, she probably won’t like it.”

“I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to cause issues for you professionally.”

“It’s fine. She won’t stay mad. And, I’m the only attorney in the area with an advanced degree in social work. They won’t cut me off.”

“Well, in that case,” I extended a hand. “Thank you for all of your efforts. I appreciate the thorough job you did.”

He gave my hand a firm shake. “It’s been a pleasure, Ms. Morales.”

I smiled. “You’re off the clock. Call me Carmen.”

“Andar, then. Take care, Carmen.” With a smile of his own, he walked briskly towards the exit.

We followed more sedately, in deference to Abuela.

Ximo took Abuela home. But Judge Petrey would be in session for another two hours, and I didn’t feel like hanging around the grim Juvenile Justice building. I headed over to the hospital to visit padre.

There was, as usual, no change in his condition. I was too wound up to sit, so I paced back and forth, talking to padre while I worked through my tangle of thoughts and emotions.

“The judge granted the petition, so I’ll be responsible for you for a month of two. I hope that doesn’t make you as nervous as it makes me! I put on a show, so everyone would know that I’ve got this. But between you and me?” I shook my head.

It occurred to me that I wouldn’t be inspiring a whole lot of confidence, in the unlikely event that padre actually could hear what I was saying. A bit sheepishly, I added, “Don’t worry. We’ll find someone better after my thirty-to-sixty days are over.”

But there again, I was uncertain. I paced for a bit, trying desperately to think of who that “someone better” might be.

I couldn’t see any way to avoid dumping the job on Ximo, though we’d need to discuss it as a family. I could imagine asking Uncle Augui, but he’d specifically told me that he and padre hadn’t been close for a long while. Really, no-one had been close to padre; that was the problem.

“You drove everyone away, you know.” I paused in my pacing just long enough to frown at the man in the bed. “Abuela said you were popular, back in school. Knew how to make friends. When the investigator asked me if you had a ‘romantic partner,’ I couldn’t even picture it. Why did you just shut everyone out?”

Padre, naturally, had no answer. I resumed my pacing.

“Ximo and I, we’re the last weys standing. We’re the only realistic choices for being your conservator — and it’s not because you’re actually close to either of us. That’s on you.”

Poor Ximo. I remembered Lydia’s words from the day before — how she and AJ had to “grow up fast” when their daughter was born. And how AJ “just stepped up.” Sorry, ’mano, I thought. Looks like it’s your turn. And you don’t even get a cute bambino out of it!

But that was just one of my worries. “As if I didn’t have enough on my plate right now, I’m really scared for Kelsey. She was living with a total pendejo. Do you remember Dace Gutierrez? Diego’s older brother? He was a couple years older, so maybe you don’t.”

I glanced at padre without slowing down my march. “Anyway, he sent me a picture of his pinche junk — that’s what a cochino he is. Kels was ripped, so they had a big fight and he beat her up. She cracked a rib, had to go to the hospital. All of that. She moved out . . . but now, it looks like she’s getting back together with him!”

As always, my worries failed to change the slow, rhythmic sound of the breathing apparatus.

“I think she’s just feeling low, and insecure. Like, if she doesn't hang on to Dace, it’s some kind of failure. Which is nuts, ’cuz a convent would be an upgrade! I think your brother — dear Uncle Fernando! — could help her a lot on the self-esteem front. She still cares what he thinks — God knows why. But instead, he just makes things worse.”

I brooded for a few moments, pausing at the foot of the bed. “I asked Kels to go see him yesterday, and she was so depressed afterwards she seems to have flipped out and gone right back into Dace’s waiting arms. I can’t help thinking she’d have been okay, if I hadn’t asked her — or if your brother hadn’t been a complete asshat about it.”

I shook my head in complete disgust before adding, “And that’s another thing. Did you know that Uncle Fernando was still in touch with Momma?”

My sudden scream brought the duty nurse running. Padre’s eyes had popped wide open.

— To be continued

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