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 court appointed an investigator to assess the conservatorship petition, and during his investigation he found that Carmen’s uncle Fernando, currently serving a prison sentence, had contact information for Carmen’s mother, who had disappeared over twenty years prior. Carmen speaks to her mother, who agrees not to oppose the petition, but tells Carmen to lose her number.

When Carmen is alone with her padre in his hospital room, she mentions that her uncle had her mother’s contact information. For the first time since his stroke, padre’s eyes pop wide open. Carmen screams in response.

Chapter 22: Webs of heredity and environment

Jill Thomas, the nurse who’d been at the front desk, burst into padre’s room. “Carmen! What’s wrong?”

I pointed to padre. “His eyes! His eyes opened!!!”

She squeezed my shoulder. “Okay, Hon. Take some deep breaths. Let me check him out.”

I nodded, then tried hard to follow her advice.

She moved briskly to the bed and used her fingers and hands to test whether padre’s now-open eyes would respond to stimuli. But they remained fixed in place, to all appearances staring at nothing.

“Mr. Morales,” she said. “If you can hear me, please blink once.”

No change.

“If you can hear me, please shut your eyes again.”

Still no change.

She turned to me. “Okay. I’m going to ask the doctor to come and check him out, alright? I’ll be right back.” She didn’t move until I’d nodded my understanding.

Once her footsteps receded, I stepped closer to the bed. “Padre . . . I don’t know if you can hear me. But . . . I talked to her yesterday. To Momma.”

I thought I saw a flicker in his eyes, but I might easily have imagined it.

But what else could I say, that would do anything but harm? Yes, I’d spoken with his wife. But, she’d married someone else. Maybe had another child, too. She’d changed the name of their son — the one who had been given the name of padre’s own father at baptism. And, of course, she’d told me in no uncertain terms that she wanted no further contact. Not exactly glad tidings.

Jill reappeared before I could think of something else to tell him. “We’re in luck, Hon — Dr. Chatterji wasn’t on the schedule today, but she came in to check on another patient. She’ll be down in a couple minutes.” While we were waiting, she took padre’s vitals and pulled together additional data that might be useful to the doctor.

To me, unfortunately, none of it meant anything.

The doctor slipped in a few moments later. “Good morning, Carmen — I hear we’ve had some excitement?”

She ran through some of the same exercises that Jill had done, then she watched padre’s eyes intently while she pinched his upper arm. Finally, she used a small flashlight to test whether the irises of his eyes dilated in response to light stimulation. When she was finished, she made some additional notations on padre’s chart, then gave me a half-smile. “It’s something. But it’s hard to say how much of a something just yet.”

Well, damn. “I was afraid of that.”

She nodded sympathetically. “He isn’t responding to vocal prompts for opening or closing his eyes, which is a significant step that we look for. There was a slight widening of his eyes when I applied pressure by pinching, and that’s encouraging. The eyes are dilating in response to light, and that’s good — but we’ve seen that before, and it’s been intermittent. So . . . we need to continue monitoring. Let’s see if there’s additional progress in the next few days.”

“Nothing else?”

“There are additional neurological tests that can provide a sense of brain functioning, like the functional MRI, or ‘fmri.’ They can be used to assess whether he can hear and understand questions — even if he lacks sufficient control of his body to respond to them. But I wouldn’t recommend it just yet.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not something we could do here, and I’d be reluctant to move him in his condition. Also, the results — positive or negative — wouldn’t impact our current course of care. I hate to say, ‘be patient’ — I know it must feel like it’s been forever! But I think our best course right now is to just continue what we’re doing, and keep a close eye on him to see if we detect any more changes.”

I felt my shoulders slump. “Damn. I really thought . . . .”

She gave my arm a squeeze. “And you may have been right. It’s just too soon to tell.”

“There is one thing,” I said slowly.

She gave me an encouraging look.

“All the time I’ve been coming here, talking to him, I’ve never gotten a response. When his eyes opened just now, I had just mentioned something — mentioned someone — that would have caused him to react, if he had been awake.”

“I see. That is interesting.” She thought for a few moments, then shook her head. “It might be a coincidence, of course. But I would certainly encourage you to keep talking to him when you come. You might want to make that suggestion to the rest of your family as well, for whenever they are here. And we’ll have the staff step it up as well.”

“Okay. Thank you, Doctor.”

She gave my arm another squeeze and left. Nurse Jill said, “Hang in there, Hon,” and returned to her station.

All of the adrenaline that had been coursing through my system seemed to vanish all at once, and I dropped into the chair by his bed like a puppet whose strings were cut. I barely found the strength to reach out and take his hand. “You hang in there, too, padre. You hear?”

~o~O~o~

I figured my bureaucratic nightmare would start as soon as I got the probate court’s order, and I’d come prepared. In a zippered folio I’d brought certified copies of padre’s birth certificate and driver’s license, my own birth certificate (which I’d had changed a couple years before, so I didn’t have to explain away any discrepancy), and the property tax records for the house in Buttonwillow. Once I had multiple copies of Judge Petrey’s order certified by the clerk, I set off to visit the banks.

Very fortunately, Ximo’s vague memory as to which bank padre used proved to be correct. But I still had to work my way through an account specialist and an assistant manager, who passed me up to the branch manager, before they would confirm that padre had an account with them. Then they had an additional sheaf of papers which I was required to fill out before they would provide access.

But once all that was done to their satisfaction, and they collected all of their papers and copies of all of my identifying documents, they were very helpful. They couldn’t set me up with online banking (I had to do that online), but they were able to give me some temporary checks and a print-out of all of the account activity for the prior sixty days.

I was dismayed to discover that padre had nothing but a checking account, and it had less than four thousand dollars in it. No savings account, no money market. Nada, nada, lemonada. Not only that, his mortgage payments went to an online bank, so I was going to have a harder time getting my credentials accepted there. But at least I could pay bills.

It was three o’clock before I managed to finish my business with the bank, and I found myself blessing my brother’s good memory. If I’d had to go through all of that with every bank in Bakersfield before finding the one padre had used, I’d have burned a week. Still, I knew I would have a lot of paperwork to do once I got back to the motel.

I decided I could justify stopping at the Sheriffs’ Department first, and this time my luck held. From the front desk, I could see the guy who’d taken my statement in the large room behind, doing the sort of paperwork I was, myself, avoiding. It seemed to be the primary occupation of the six uniformed officers who were at various desks.

A woman came up to the counter and asked if I needed help.

“Hi. My name is Carmen Morales. Officer Braddock indicated I should come in to reclaim my firearm?”

If that was an unusual request, it didn’t phase her. She turned around and raised her voice. “Hey, Brian – someone here for you.”

He looked up and his face brightened. Then he rose and came over, smiling. “It’s Miss Morales, isn’t it? Tanya mentioned you came in a while back; I’m sorry I missed you.”

“No hay bronca,” I said without thinking . . . then flushed. “I mean, no problem.”

“Relax,” he laughed. “I’d have to be pretty thick not to have picked up that much Spanish.” He seemed far more relaxed than he had the night he’d responded to the domestic violence incident at Dace’s house, but I suppose that wasn’t surprising. “You’re here about your handgun?”

“Yes. Will you be able to release it?”

He shook his head, looking apologetic. “Jared Philips from the PD’s Office put an evidence hold on it, so I’m afraid we have to keep it until the case is resolved.”

“Oh.” My heart sank. “Ah . . . I know it’s a tricky question, but . . . any idea how long that’s likely to be?”

“He’s up for three counts of battery and one felony domestic violence, so . . . trial’s at least six months out. Probably longer. He could take a plea, but so far Philips hasn’t been signaling that. Pretty aggressive, really. I know for a fact he tried to get the DA interested in charging you and your brother, but he got nowhere with that.”

“With everything I’ve been dealing with, I’d kind of forgotten that was a possibility.” Since getting arrested wouldn’t look good on my bar application, I really shouldn’t have!

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he assured me. “It was just an effort to create some counter-pressure. But I don’t know why he bothered. The charges related to his attacks on you and your brother are only misdemeanors anyway; the felony’s for his attack on your sister.”

“Cousin,” I corrected. “Though honestly I’m surprised you remember it at all — you must have hundreds of cases.”

“We keep busy, that’s for sure. But we don’t usually get such good evidence. Your brother’s video clip was very helpful.”

“Good to know. Well . . . I guess it’ll take however long it takes. I’ll have to go without for a while longer.”

“You don’t have a backup?” He sounded both surprised and concerned.

“Hey,” I protested. “A good handgun isn’t cheap! Besides . . . as much as I like having it with me, I’m better at static target practice than I am in real-life situations.”

He shook his head sharply. “No. Seriously— that’s the wrong attitude. If you need extra training, take the time and get it. Don’t go without protection!”

I was a bit taken aback by his vehemence. “I mean, most people don’t carry handguns, do they?”

He looked left and right, as if ensuring that no-one was listening in, then lowered his voice. “Look, I don't want to tell you your business, but you have to know better than that. Most people aren’t trans. My old sergeant — the one I told you about — he made sure his girl knew how to defend herself. Hear what I’m saying?”

“I do,” I sighed. “And, yeah. That’s why I carry. I just wish I didn’t have to live like that, you know?”

His expression softened. “Yeah, I get it. I kind of wish no-one had to live like that. But there’s that world, and then there’s the world we live in, right?”

I nodded. “Right. Believe me, I get it. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Let me think. You had a Ruger, right? Was it the .22 or the .38?”

“The .38 special.”

“And you were okay with the recoil on that one?”

I nodded. “I tried 9 millimeter models, but they were a bit too much.”

“Yeah . . . you might want to look at the Smith & Wesson Shield EZ; it’ll be a lot less expensive than your Ruger, and it’ll work with your hand size.” He thought for a moment, then said, “Tell you what. If you get yourself a backup, I can take you to our training center — we’ve got access to a simulator as well as a firing range, so you can get some practice that helps develop judgement and speed. Okay?”

His offer more than surprised me. “That’s very generous of you.”

“Just a little paying forward. My training Sergeant meant a lot to me.”

I noticed his use of the past tense, and his words reminded me strongly of my own feelings about Sister Catalina. So I said, “If you're sure it’s not too much trouble, I’d really appreciate that. Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure.” He smiled in a way that made his words seem genuine.

“I’ll let you get back to your paperwork. I’ve got a stack of my own waiting for me.”

“Don’t remind me!” he groaned theatrically.

He went back to his desk, and I found myself — much to my own surprise — leaving the Sheriff’s Office with a smile on my face.

~o~O~o~

Much as I wasn’t looking forward to diving into padre’s paperwork, I was glad to have the evening to recharge. On a whim, I picked up some Indian takeout from a place in Bakersfield before heading back to the motel.

Back in my room, I ate my Rogan Josh and went through the print-out of padre’s banking activity, making notes and planning next steps. Then I went back to the Medi-Cal application I’d started while I was home, filling in some of the details I was learning about padre’s finances.

A bit after seven I took a break to call Abuela and tell her about padre opening his eyes, but my call didn’t go through. I tried again with the same result, then cursed as I remembered that it was actually Gaby’s phone. It was a fair bet that she’d blocked my number. I tried Ximo as well, but he shot me a text reminding me that he was out with Anna.

I kept working, taking only a brief break to text with my roomies. When I was just about ready to call it a night, though, I received a text from Innie. “Got a sec?”

Rather than texting back, I called her.

She picked right up. “Hey, Carmen.”

“¿Que onda?

“I need you to stop me from going over to that cochino’s house and knocking some sense into Kelsey.”

“Can’t I just join you instead?”

She made one of her rude noises. “Fuck. I need my sensible cousin. I forgot you’d gone all kick ass on me.”

“Serves you right. Never mind that though — what happened?”

“I bugged her all day until she finally called me back. She’s all over the place, but Jesus! She frickin’ knows she’s being an idiot. But it’s almost as bad as arguing with Aunt Maria when she’s in a snit – or in a pew!”

I shook my head in frustration. “She told me in the hospital that he’d already lost interest in her.”

“Yeah — and you know what? She still thinks so. She doesn’t think it’ll work out.”

“Then why —“

“Because she ‘has to try.’ Can you frickin’ believe it?”

“Yeah.” I felt a lump in my throat. “Yeah, I can.”

“Really? ’Cuz I can’t. No way in fucking hell. And when I said so, the little bitch told me she doesn’t want to end up like ‘Immaculate Inés!’ That’s when I frickin’ hung up on her!”

“Mierda!”

“Tell me about it. I’m so pissed I’d go right back to ghosting her sorry ass, if I didn’t know that’s just what she’s trying to make me do!”

“Yeah, we can’t let her do that,” I agreed.

“I don’t like hanging around waiting,” she warned.

Unfortunately, though we continued to discuss it for almost half an hour, neither of us could come up with any better ideas.

I managed to get a decent night’s sleep and was up early the next morning. I spent a chunk of time activating online access to padre’s checking account and getting in touch with the bank holding his mortgage. By 9:30, I was starting to think that insurance companies were actually streamlined and bureaucracy-free — at least when compared to banks.

During one of my longer, more frustrating opportunities to enjoy music on hold while someone figured out where to route my call, I’d gotten a call from the 415 area code, and apparently they’d left a voicemail. When I was done with the call I pulled it up.

I got the classic spam lure – “Hello? Hello?” – used to trick people into confirming that the machine had reached an authentic number. I went to delete the message.

But the voice continued. “This is Lucy Parker. I think you may be my granddaughter. Could you please call me back? Please?” The message ended.

My grandmother?

I leaned back in my uncomfortable motel chair, trying to process what I had just heard. Andar Kasparian’s report had mentioned that he’d tracked her down and called her. She’d told him she didn’t know where Momma was, but presumably his call had alerted her to my identity and what was going on with padre.

I had mixed feelings about returning the call. Abuela was the only grandmother I’d ever known, and this “Lucy Parker” had no role in my life when I was growing up. Not before Momma had left, and certainly not after. I owed her nothing. But I didn’t bear my unknown grandmother any ill-will, either, and she had sounded genuinely distressed.

I postponed a decision by taking a shower and getting myself dressed — I’d been working in the soft tank top and shorts I’d slept in, but I needed to go out to the hospital later. Mindful of the heat, I went with a loose cotton sundress and sandals.

I grabbed a coffee from the lobby and went out to the pool area. There were some chavos having a swim and making the usual sorts of noises, but the area with the high-top tables was empty and the umbrellas provided some shade. I decided to stop being stubborn and stupid, and make the pinche phone call.

She answered with a “hello” that sounded anxious and hopeful and desperate, all at the same time.

I took a breath to steady myself. “This is Carmen Morales; I’m returning your call.”

“Oh, God! Thank you! Thank you!” She was crying. “Thank you so much!”

Uncomfortably, I said, “What can I do for you, Mrs. Parker?”

“Please! Please, help me find my daughter! Help me find my Kathy!”

“I haven’t seen her in over twenty years.” My statement was true — as far as it went. But while I didn’t necessarily feel compelled to keep my mother’s secrets, I wasn’t going to babble them to a stranger, either. Especially not a strange relative!

“She hasn’t called you?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“I see.” Her words were filled with despair— the voice of someone whose last, desperate hope has been snuffed out.

“Mrs. Parker,” I said gently. “Can you tell me what happened?”

She was silent for a long moment, but finally she sighed. “I was an idiot, that’s what. She was beautiful and intelligent and talented — so much potential! Then she got herself pregnant at some stupid party, and I . . . I . . . .” Her voice trailed off.

It occurred to me that the words that were burned in my own memory – I have no daughter! – might have been an echo. “You disowned her?”

“Yes. No! I mean, I gave her a choice, and she made it. She was always such a stubborn girl! She threw away her life, left school and went off with that man, off to the middle of nowhere. It was her choice.”

I felt a knot in my stomach. “What was the other choice?”

“Stay home! Finish school. Forget about him — it was obvious she didn’t love him! Get an . . . .”

She stopped abruptly.

I finished her sentence, my voice tight. “An abortion?” I’d wondered why they hadn’t myself, but it was still a shock to hear someone else casually suggest that I shouldn’t have been born.

The pause was longer, this time. When she answered, her voice was tired and emotionless, flat as a cake that’s failed to rise. “Yes. I’m sorry. I was only thinking of her life then; it’s all that mattered to me. She was our one and only. I just wanted her to be happy.”

“When she went off with ‘that man’ and had her baby, did you think it made her happy, knowing that you wouldn’t speak to her?”

“That . . . that was pride. And stubbornness. Hers and mine both. Not her father’s — Leonard was never that way. I think he managed to stay in touch with her, without telling me. But he passed away back in ‘99.”

A grandfather I’d never known, who died when I was four. “Was she able to see him, before he died?”

“No. He had a massive heart attack, right in the middle of a performance. He . . . he was gone before he even hit the stage!” She was weeping again. “Will you tell me, if she calls you? I so want to see her again. To tell her . . . how sorry I am. How much I miss her!”

“No.” The response was automatic, before I’d even processed the request. Once my brain caught up, I added, “But I will tell her what you said, if she ever calls, and I’ll give her your number. She’ll have to make her own decision about whether to reach out to you.”

~o~O~o~

When I got to padre’s room, I found my other grandmother was already there. Abuela was sitting in the chair by his bed, her head bent.

I immediately noticed that padre’s eyes were closed.

Although I was sure Abuela heard me coming, I announced my presence. “Buenos días, Abuela. Good morning, padre.”

“Carmen,” she said by way of acknowledgement.

I pulled up the spare chair and sat facing her. My emotions were still pretty raw from learning that Momma was disowned because she wouldn’t abort me. But I had responsibilities that I needed to deal with, and I resolved not to let my feelings overwhelm me.

“I’m glad you’re here this morning,” I said. “There was something I wanted to talk with you about.”

“So. Talk.”

“Well . . . a couple things, really. First is, like you heard yesterday, we’re going to need to file an application for appointment of the long-term conservator. Even if I could do it, it doesn’t sound like the judge will appoint me.”

“Idiot.”

I shrugged helplessly, which again she couldn’t see. “It is what it is, though. I’ve been thinking about it, going back and forth . . . I can’t see any alternative but Ximo.”

“He’s a child.” She raised her hand to still the protest she must have guessed – correctly – was coming. “I know you’re only three years older. But you grew up and he hasn’t.”

“I thought so, too, when I first showed up. Now, though . . . I think he’d surprise you.”

She made a non-committal noise.

“Well, what’s the alternative?” I challenged. “Will you do it?”

“We’ve been through that. No.”

“Then, one of the tio’s? Do you think Uncle Angel should take care of padre?”

““Don’t be a tonta.”

“I’d ask Uncle Augustin, but . . . he told me that he and padre haven’t been close in a long time.”

She shrugged. “Juan isn’t close to any of his brothers, except for Fernando. And I wouldn’t trust Fernando. . . . Not with Juan.”

I thought about that for a moment, and realized it was true. Padre would attend family events when I lived at home – we all did – but he was as much on the margins of the crowd as I was. I at least had Innie and Kels to hang out with. When I remembered him in animated conversation, it was usually with Uncle Fernando.

“Abuela – why was padre so isolated? Did the tio’s resent him, because they thought he was your favorite?”

She shrugged, but didn’t respond.

“Was there another reason?”

This time she turned her face toward mine. “Why bring up the past? It’s done.”

I thought about my conversation with my other grandmother, and knew Abuela had a point. A good one, really. But for all that . . . “I need to know.”

“Why?”

“When I was here yesterday, after the hearing, I was talking to Padre. Both his eyes opened. Can you guess what I was talking about when that happened?”

That got her attention. “His eyes opened? Did he try to speak?”

“No, and we couldn’t tell whether he was seeing anything, or hearing anything. The doctor said it may or may not be significant, and it’s too soon to know for sure. But he opened his eyes when I mentioned Momma.”

The corner of her mouth turned down, and she shook her head. “Still?”

Her question hung in the air like a sulfur bomb, but she didn’t elaborate. “What do you mean, still?”

“Years have passed. Decades. And he’s still mooning after that foolish woman!”

“Maybe. Or maybe it was just a coincidence. But if that’s something that at least reaches him, I’d like to know about it.”

“Ancient history.”

The past is never dead. It's not even past. “It doesn’t feel that way. Not from the way all of you talk about her.”

“She made an impression.”

Suddenly my temper got the better of my resolve to focus on the practical. I was tired of being kept in the dark. Tired of half answers. If anyone knew what had happened, all those years ago, it was Abuela, and she didn’t want to talk about it.

Well, too bad. “I spoke to her, a couple days ago.”

Her face turned toward me slowly. “What?”

“Talked to her on the phone. Kelsey got contact information. Can you guess where?”

“You think this is a game?”

“No, I don’t. But I cough up information all day long, and I get nothing back. Yes, I spoke with Momma. I’ll even tell you what she said . . . but there are some things I want to know, too.”

“She should stay away.”

Yeah, well. No worries on that score. But . . . “Tell. Me. Why.”

She threw up a hand, in frustration or concession or both. “Fine. She came here with Juan when she was pregnant. They stayed with me and she was miserable. Then you were born. She didn’t know how to do anything and didn’t want to learn.”

“You didn’t get along, I take it?”

She ignored my question, which had mostly been rhetorical anyway. “After a year or so she disappeared. Juan turned to the bottle instead of looking after you, so Fernando tracked her down, and he and Augustin went and talked some sense into her. She came back. She and Juan got married. She got pregnant with Joaquim and they moved into their own house.”

She went quiet, but this time I didn’t interrupt. It was clear she was brooding over hard memories, and I thought I had some idea of what they might be. I doubted I would want to face them, either.

After a few moments, she grimaced. “I thought it was better, or getting better. It wasn’t. The older boys . . . they knew things weren’t right with Juan and Kathy. But they took her side.”

“And Padre didn’t like it?”

She snorted. “Juan? Think! Yes, he was bad – but the wives were worse. They thought . . . well. Never mind what they thought.”

It didn’t take an advanced degree, or even much imagination. “Were they wrong?”

“How do I know?” She threw up her hands. “But Angel and Maria were fighting, and Javier and Juana were fighting, and Consola was sulking in her church pew and the boys were acting like they wanted to beat each other with sticks. And of course, Juan and Kathy were always fighting.”

Two plus to equals four. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

“No.” She didn’t pretend to misunderstand my question. “She left on her own.”

“But you helped her.” It was a statement. Of course she did.

“She came to me during the day, when Juan was at work and you and Joaquim were at school. She told me she was leaving.”

“Why you?”

“She needed to talk about the chavos. She knew she had to take the baby, but she didn’t know whether to take you and Joaquim. She didn’t like me, and I had no use for her. But she had no one else she could talk to.”

“She could have talked to padre!”

She shook her head. “It was too late for that.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I thought she and Juan should both leave – take all three of you someplace else, away from the rest of the family. She said that would be taking her worst problem with her.”

Her worst problem.

“That’s when I told her she should leave you two here.” She shrugged. “You were both in school, and she didn’t even know where she was going. Just ‘far away from here.’ Here, at least, you would be safe. I thought she would get in touch once she was established somewhere.”

“You didn’t try to talk her out of leaving?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“She was miserable, and she was making everyone around her miserable. She wouldn’t give Juan another chance. What choice did that leave?”

I sat for a while in silence, processing all of this new information. Had Abuela made the right decision? Would it have mattered if she had fought for Momma to stay? Would my life, or Ximo’s, have been better if Momma had stuck it out in a marriage that was spiraling the drain? Maybe they could have done something truly radical and sought professional help. I assume even Bakersfield has marriage counselors.

And how about padre’s life? Abuela had chosen to play God. Maybe she’d made good choices, and maybe not, but there had been real costs involved. I looked at the man in the hospital bed, thinking what his life would have been like, if different decisions had been made. By Momma, by Abuela. By padre himself. My heart contracted, painfully, like it had been squeezed by a giant fist.

Rising, I took Abuela’s hand, and placed her palm against the side of her son’s face.

She needed to feel the tears that soaked his cheek.

— To be continued

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