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.

Chapter 4: The Brother

Abuela’s sightless eyes did not shift; to all appearances she was looking at her son. But she waved an arm in my general direction. “This is Juan’s eldest. We are all family. So, tell us.”

Doctor Chatterji had the warm looks and musical accent of someone born and raised on the Indian subcontinent. “The basic chemistry panel, ultrasound and CT scan all confirmed that he had an acute ischemic stroke as a result of a blood clot that formed in his carotid artery. We immediately set up a TPA IV – medicine to break up blood clots. It appears to have been successful.”

I glanced at Abuela before turning my attention back to the doctor. “Can you explain what all of that means?”

“One of the arteries that supplies blood to the brain got clogged, depriving a portion of the brain of oxygen. Lack of oxygen causes damage, and based on your father’s condition it was essential that we restored the blood flow as quickly as possible.”

“How severe was the damage?”

She raised a narrow shoulder. “It is difficult to tell for certain. Until he regains consciousness, we can’t run any of the standard performance-based tests on him. But . . . .” It was the doctor’s turn to give Abuela a measuring glance.

She couldn’t see the doctor looking at her, but she could sense the hesitation. “Tell us what you know.”

“We don’t know that much with certainty just yet,” Doctor Chatterji cautioned.

“Then tell us what you think.” Abuela’s peremptory tone dismissed all the uncertainties.

“Alright . . . . The imaging we have so far suggests that the damage is likely to be extensive. You need to know that. It was very unfortunate it took so long for anyone to find him. The blood clot medication is best used within three hours of the outset of symptoms. Four and a half is an outside parameter. But, we can’t really be sure when his symptoms started. The fact that he hasn’t regained consciousness is a bad sign. I’m sorry.”

I took a deep breath. “Okay. What comes next, and what do we do?”

“There are additional tests that we want to run, including an MRI. In the meantime, we’ll continue with an IV and oxygen. Keeping him stable is the most important thing we can do until things change.”

“Who pays for all this?” Abuela growled.

“I’m the wrong person to ask about that.” Doctor Chatterji was firm. “Your son is at the ER, it’s our job to provide him care. We’ve got people who will be in touch about payment plans.”

My cue, I guess. “I’ll talk to the people who handle this. But I need to find out Padre’s insurance status.”

The doctor nodded. “That sounds like a good idea. We’ll keep you informed of any changes in his condition.” Then she was off.

I gave Lupe a lopsided smile. “How long have you two been here?”

“We arrived a bit before you did,” she replied.

“It’s probably going to take me some time just to get a list of everything that they are going to want on the paperwork side. And I’ll need to get in touch with Padre’s work and see if I can get to the bottom of the insurance issue.”

“Go,” Abuela said. “We will stay here for now.”

Lupe added, “I can get us an Uber if you’re still tied up when Abuela is ready to leave.”

* * * * *

Needless to say, they were long gone before I’d begun to get a handle on all the nonsense paperwork, and Padre was alone. The hospital wanted a lot of information that I didn’t have, and I knew neither Abuela nor Lupe would have it either.

Optimistically, I thought the hospital would be able to determine Padre’s insurance just by knowing his employer. But according to their system, Kern Cotton was listed as an employee-choice plan. They assured me that the company would know which insurance Padre had selected. Good in theory, but my calls to Kern Cotton shunted to telephone tree hell; it looked like the office, at least, was closed for the weekend.

California has lots of statutory protections for people who need emergency medical care and lack insurance, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t come after Padre for “reasonable” ER costs when – if – he survived. He has to have insurance. Doesn’t he?

I saw no change in Padre from my earlier visit. The same shrunken, almost generic figure. I couldn’t reconcile the man I was seeing with my memories.

“No, Carlos! Keep the ball in focus, and swing through the pitch!” His voice made the matter seem urgent. “Here, like this.” With the bat in his calloused hands, took a stance by the plate, and gave a short, fast, powerful swing while keeping his eyes forward, focused on the mound. “See the difference?”

“I’ll try, Padre.”

“You can do it. I know you can!”

“Ms. Morales?”

The nurse’s voice broke my reverie. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry, we need to check his vitals.”

“That’s all right, I was just going. I’ll be back . . . tomorrow.” I suppressed a sigh. So far, I hadn’t accomplished anything. Who knew how long it would take to get the mess sorted out?

Down in the lobby, I shot Kelsey a text. “Hey. I’m trying to figure out Padre’s insurance. Do you have Joaquim’s number?”

She answered about five minutes later, “Don’t think so. Maybe UncAugi knows about the ins.”

“He still works at Kern?”

“Ya”

I hadn’t spoken to my Uncle Augustin since before I was tossed out. I didn’t know how he would feel about talking to me, but it was the best lead I had. Kelsey did have his number – his home number, anyway. As far as she knew, he’d never gotten a cell phone.

I found an unoccupied corner of the waiting room and made a call. After three rings I heard a click, and a female voice said, “Hello?”

This could be bad. “Ah . . . Aunt Consola?”

“No, it’s Inés. Wait . . . who is this?”

“Innie . . . it’s me. Carmen. Well, Carlos. But Carmen, now.”

The line went quiet, and my apprehension stretched each moment into an eternity of purgatory. My cousin Inés had been a friend. One of the few I’d had, and certainly the fiercest. I had a sudden image of her, blowing through a cordon of much larger boys, eyes blazing, fists pounding, screaming. Stop it!!! Stop!!! Who the fuck do you think you are?

She finally broke the silence. “‘Carmen,’ huh? Never thought I’d hear from you again. What’s . . . oh. Your dad, right?”

My heart sank. Her harsh, almost snide tone put paid to any thought that our friendship might have survived the events of twelve years ago. I wanted more than anything to just get off the phone, but I had a job to do first. “Abuela told me to come up, and I’m trying to get a handle on his insurance situation. Can I talk to your dad?”

“He’s not here. And I’m guessing you don’t want to catch up with my mother, do you?”

Aunt Consolación, so pious she made Aunt Maria seem like a harlot? “No, thanks. I’ve . . . I’ve got to get on top of this insurance stuff, you know . . . .”

“Uh huh,” she replied sarcastically, unimpressed with my threadbare excuse. “You’re in town?”

“Yeah. I’m, uh . . . staying with Kelsey.”

“Huh. Figures. Well . . . I’ll tell Dad you called.” The line went dead.

I closed my eyes, feeling tired beyond reason. I shouldn’t be here. Someone else should be doing this.

I did know another number I could call. Another landline. I hadn’t used it in twelve years, but I’d had to memorize it before I ever had a cell phone, let alone one that supported a contacts list. Padre would not answer it, of course, and might never again. But Joaquim was almost certainly still living there.

From memory, I dialed the number that my brain insisted on labeling “home.”

After five rings, it kicked over to voicemail. This is Juan Morales. Leave a message. Hearing his voice – raspier, but still his, still an echo of the man I remembered – was unsettling, after seeing the strange figure upstairs. I didn’t leave a message.

I left the hospital and by the time I reached my car, I had already stripped down to my tank top. The overshirt was too much in the afternoon heat. I knew Joaquim worked for Clean Harbors, but it was a Saturday and he might be home.

No! Not ‘home!’ Padre’s house.

My heart pounded hard as I drove back to Buttonwillow. When I turned down the street of my childhood each house served up its own memory. Faces and names that I associated with it. Eduardo’s folks must have left; they’d never let the paint go like that . . . and the weeds! Oh . . . the Aguilars finally put on the addition they were always talking about . . . .

And there it was. Another modest tract house, looking about the same as it did in my memory — butter-cream with an accent color on the eaves. The blue trim was a mistake. Should have left it brown. The lawn, given barely enough water to survive the June heat, had a gray tinge.

Two cars in the driveway – that was a good sign. I parked on the street and stepped out. The sun pounded hard on my bare shoulders as I left the car’s AC, but I was too overcome by memories to worry about it.

I could hear his teenage voice in my head, like he was standing right in front of me, facing me like he had that last time, by the gym. Carlos! What are you doing here?

I gotta finish school. It’s just two more weeks.

Just . . . fuck, stay away from me, okay?

Ximo, it’s not my fault – it’s just who I am!

I don’t know you, and I don’t want to know you. Jesus, man, this gets out, I’m totally fucked, okay?”

Well, I didn’t much want to spend time with him either, but it didn’t look like I was going to have any choice.

I squared my shoulders, marched up the cement front walk, and rapped on the front door a bit harder than I’d intended.

The man who opened the door looked nothing like the reedy, awkward, acne-cursed adolescent I remembered. Larger in every dimension, well-built, taller than me, a thin mustache and hair that looked like a poor girl’s perm. But I would know the face anywhere.

He recognized me instantly; even his face couldn’t keep a secret. But it took him a minute to wrap his head around the idea that I was here, on the doorstep, before he was able to speak. “Kelsey said . . . you go by Carmen?”

“Yeah.”

He shook his head looking mildly dazed. “Padre . . . he’s . . . he’s not here. He –”

“I know, Ximo. Abuela called me. It’s why I’m here.”

“Abuela? Why would she . . . ?” He seemed to be having trouble processing. Nothing new there.

“For some reason only she can explain, she thought I could help. Look, I know you don’t approve of me, and I don’t intend to stay. But if I’m going to be able to do anything for Padre, I’m going to need your help.”

He bobbed his head, slowly coming to grips with the situation. “Uh, sure. Of course.” Suddenly conscious of the fact that we were standing in the doorway like idiots, he said, “come on in.” He checked himself. “Sorry. That was stupid. I mean, I live here, but it’s your home, too, bro.” HIs face suddenly flushed as his eyes fell to my chest. "Umm . . . ."

I stepped inside trying not to smile. 'It’s not my home, but thanks for saying so."' The stale, acrid smell of a lifetime’s addiction to Marlboro’s felt like an assault. Growing up, I hadn’t even noticed it.

Short front entrance. Closets on either side. The hallway to the bedrooms to the right; living room straight ahead. At some point in the past twelve years, Padre appeared to have gotten a new couch and better recliner. “Wow. Never thought he’d get rid of the Lazy Boy.”

Joaquim shrugged. “The dog destroyed it.”

“Dog?”

“Monty . . . Montezuma, I guess. Big mutt. He died last year. Maybe the year before?”

Wow. Since I left, a dog was born, lived and died here. I felt awkward sitting without an invitation, so I just stood and faced my brother, whose eyes, again, slid to my chest. It was hard to blame him; my tank was a little revealing. “Go on,” I said wearily. “Ask.”

He turned red all over again. “No, sorry. I just . . . I mean, fuck. When Kelsey told me, I couldn’t picture it. Know what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, well . . . .” I needed to cut to the chase. “Listen. I just spent a few hours at the hospital trying to figure everything out, but we’ve hit a wall. What’s Padre’s insurance situation?”

“I told Abuela already — I don’t know!” He radiated confusion, which was definitely the Joaquim I remembered, though it looked strange on his more man-like face. “Back before I was working, I think we had Kaiser.”

“Okay; I think we might have had that when I was at home, too. But he didn’t have a card in his wallet when they found him. Does he have some place he keeps papers?”

“Well . . . I mean . . .” he waved his hand in the direction of the hallway. “He kind of dumps stuff in your old room.”

“Uh huh. Okay. Maybe I’d better start there.”

He looked uncomfortable. “Sure. I, uhh . . . . Fuck. You know the way. Listen, can I get you anything? A beer?”

I shook my head. “No; I’m not used to the heat as much anymore. Got a bit of a headache. But some water would be nice.”

“Water. Yeah. Okay. You want an Advil or something?”

“That’d be great.”

He headed off toward the kitchen like a man with a mission.

I took a deep breath and went down the hall. The first door was – had been, anyway – Joaquim’s room. I used to share the room at the end of the hall with Joaquim, but we’d each had our own space ever since Mom took off with little Domingo.

I’d always kept the door closed when I lived here. Always. That room had been my refuge. I’d kept a stash of clothes buried in the closet – just a couple sad skirts and blouses and underwear I’d managed to acquire over time – though I’d mostly dressed when I visited Kelsey at her place. But the door was wide open, and in place of my carefully maintained order, there was nothing but dust, clutter, and piles of papers. The old couch, looking even worse than I remembered, took up the space where my bed used to sit.

I crossed the threshold and resolutely marched to the first mound of papers, piled high on the folding table where I did my homework. Same folding chair, too, but . . . it looked like it had been a while since anyone had used it for sitting. I was going to need to wipe it down before I used it.

I lightly touched the back of the chair’s metal frame, only to have a memory surge up. I settled my shoulders into the chair, the spaghetti straps of my cami top all that separated my skin from the cool metal. My reflection in the small mirror on the table frowned. The lipstick looked okay. Definitely not clownish, like my earlier attempts. But I couldn’t get the eye makeup right. Maybe my colors were just different from Kelsey’s. Even though we’re cousins and all. I puckered my lips, trying for a kissy face. Did I look cute? I wondered . . . would Diego think I looked cute?

Joaquim’s footsteps brought me back, and I turned to the door with double gratitude. I DON’T want to think about Diego Gutierrez!

He handed me a plastic cup with water from the tap and a couple Advil, and gave me a look. “This must feel . . . like, seriously weird.”

I didn’t have a good answer for that, so I shrugged. “It is what it is. I’m guessing you don’t know some magic secret to Padre’s ‘filing’ system?”

“Padre? Filing?” He snorted. “I’m going to guess that the newer stuff is closer to the top of any pile.”

“Top of this pile is a bill from 2022,” I said, pointing to the first mound I’d come to.

“So, maybe that’s not his current stack?” It was his turn to shrug, helplessly. “That is, if he has a ‘current stack.’ He may just pitch stuff wherever.”

I couldn’t keep the irritation from my voice. “Dios Mio! Why keep it at all, then?” I popped the Advil and took a long drink of the water, but Joaquim made no move to either help or leave. He just stood there looking uncomfortable. I put the cup on the only portion of the table that wasn’t piled high with crap and said, “What?”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Do you think it will take long?”

“It would be faster with two of us.” My tone was maybe a bit more pointed than I wanted it to be, but Joaquim was still, apparently, an annoyingly clueless little brother.

He flushed. “I mean . . . I’ll help, I guess. If I know what you’re looking for. This shit’s not really my jam, you know. But, ah . . . .” If anything, his face got redder, which is hard to do with a dark complexion.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out the problem. “Who is she, and when’s she going to be here?”

“Ummm . . . it’s Anna Aguilar. Her ‘rents don’t know about us, you know? So, ah . . . . Anyway. She’s coming over around six.”

“And you would really like it if I were gone by then?”

“Du . . .” He recovered just in time. “Do you mind? I mean, I thought with Padre out of the house for now . . . .”

“I get the picture.” My voice was dry. I certainly wasn’t going to give him grief about not waiting until the body was cold – or even dead. “I’ll be out of here by five – faster, if we find something.” I put the barest of emphases on the plural pronoun. Wading through our father’s shit wasn’t exactly my ‘jam’ either; the least he could do was help. “If we don’t find anything by then, though, I’ll need to come back.”

Thus motivated, he took my instructions on what I was looking for and we both started wading through the papers. It seemed like Padre didn’t throw anything out. Bills, tax records, paystubs, sure . . . all that was expected. But also ads, flyers, solicitation letters, take-out menus, politician’s walk-cards . . . the stuff that normally goes straight from the mailbox into the trash. This wasn’t laziness, it was downright sloth.

Mostly, we worked in silence. Joaquim’s progress was slow, and he was constantly distracted by things that struck his interest without being remotely useful to the task. “Ay! Can you believe what these guys want for a set of four tires?” Or, “Miguels? That place went out of business, like, ten years ago!”

I mostly tuned him out and kept ruthlessly on target. Padre could sort his own pinche papers when and if he wanted to; all I wanted to know was whether he had health insurance. The most recent paystub I’d found, from about eighteen months ago, didn’t show any deduction for an employee healthcare co-pay, but that didn’t necessarily mean he didn’t have anything through work.

As the clock ticked over the 4:30 mark, Joaquim started to get both quieter and more antsy. I kept at it for another fifteen minutes, trying to ignore his not-so-subtle sounds of discomfort, but I finally gave up. I stood, stretched, and said, “That’s all I can do for now. I’m going to need to come back to finish up.”

He tossed a circular that had grabbed his attention with a look of relief. “Okay, sure. When –”

I cut him off. “As soon as possible. I need to get back to my job – to my life. And the sooner I settle things for Abuela, the sooner I’m out of your space, okay?”

That stopped him. He leaned back on the arm of the couch – a move I expected he’d regret – and looked up at me. “Carmen.” He said the name carefully, like he wasn’t sure about it. “I know I was an asswipe, back when . . . . You know. I don’t get what you’re doing, like, at all, and I don’t think I ever will. But . . . I’m sorry, okay?”

It was my turn to feel awkward; I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. After gaping for a moment, I said, “Thanks, Ximo. I’d explain it if I could, but . . . like I said back then, it’s just who I am. As for the rest of it . . . it was a tough time, for all of us. Maybe we should just leave it at that.”

Surprisingly, he shook his head, and pain flared in his eyes. “I’m your brother. I should have stood up for you, and I pushed you away.”

“It’s okay,” I said, feeling awkward.

“No, it’s not!” He sounded almost angry, before visibly deflating. “I’m . . . . I’m glad you came, okay? I’ve wanted to tell you that for a long time.”

Almost unwillingly, I said, “You were fourteen, ’mano. Go easy on yourself.” It’s the sort of thing that should come with a hug, I thought. But . . . God. SO not ready for that. Not with family.

He got heavily to his feet. “I’ve got tomorrow off, but . . . me and Anna are s’posed to drive to Morro Bay. If you need me, though . . . .”

I smiled. “I thought her parents didn’t know?”

“They’re clueless, okay?” He sounded bemused. “Think she’s going downtown with her girlfriends.”

Buttonwillow doesn’t have a “downtown;” he meant Bakersfield. The city. “Got it. If you don’t mind my being here without supervision, just text me when you’re leaving the house. I should be able to finish up in three or four hours.”

“You sure? I don’t want to leave you with all this.”

But somehow, I’m sure you’ll get over it. “It’s fine,” I assured him.

“I don’t have a spare key or anything.”

“Did Padre ever get around to fixing the latch on the living room window?”

Old memories of midnight escapades caused him to laugh for the first time since I’d washed up on his doorstep. “Padre? Of course not.”

“No worries, then.”

We exchanged cell phone numbers and I saw myself out, relieved to get a lungful of smoke-free air. He looked like he wanted to walk me out . . . but also, didn’t.

He was feeling ambivalent? Check. Well, me, too, ’mano.

– To be continued

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