Chapter 1: Summons

My boss’s bald head popped over my cube wall like a prairie dog greeting the dawn. “What’s the word, Carmen?”

I was deep in my analysis of four possible health care plans for one of our mid-sized clients, and Dwayne’s question caught me off guard. “Uhhhhh?”

He knows how I get when I’m in project mode, so his smile — grin, really — was understanding and his tone, as usual, gentle. “Did you get your grades? You said they’d post this afternoon.”

I slapped my forehead with my left hand while fumbling for my phone with my right. “¡Qué pendejo!” After a few seconds of furious two-fingered pounding, I got to the student login page for Western State, plugged in the ID and passcode I’d committed to memory, and pulled up the results.

“Someone looks like a happy girl!” he teased.

I nodded, smiling. “Good enough, for sure.” But I couldn’t maintain my calm facade. Pumping my fist in triumph, I repeated, “Good enough!!!”

“Don’t tell me you were worried. Bright girl like you!”

I shook my head, amazed that anyone could have failed to see what a nervous wreck I’d been. “I have to maintain a ‘B’ average to keep my grant and my scholarship, and last semester was . . . well. It wasn’t good.”

“No worries now?”

“Until next semester.”

“I can see why you said ‘good enough,’ then.” His grin got wider. “It’s after 5:30, you know.” I must have looked surprised, because he shook his head and said, “How you missed that, with all the noise people make when they leave on Friday, is beyond me. Go on now — save off, shut down, and go celebrate. God knows you’ve earned it!”

I giggled, and I don’t giggle. “Yes, sir, Mr. Moriarty, sir!” I wanted to give him a hug, because I felt an overwhelming need to hug somebody. But Dwayne’s not the sort to hug employees.

“I’d tell you to lock up, but then you’d try to do ‘just one more thing,’ and you’d be here ’til you passed out from lack of food. So wrap it up, I want to be outta here in five!” He gave me a final smile then returned to his office to collect his things.

Twenty minutes later I walked into the two-bedroom apartment I shared with two women, allowing all of us to afford coastal California’s insane prices. For the privilege of having the small single bedroom to myself, I paid extra.

“Carmencita, is that you?” Lourdes poked her head out of the kitchen, a broad and welcoming smile on her face.

My answering smile was free of strain for the first time in forever. “Hey, Querida!”

She practically bounced across the living room to give me a big hug in greeting.

“What’s that for?” I grinned into her glossy black hair.

“You got good news! I can see it all over your face! The grades, yes?”

“Got it in one. Good, and good enough!”

“I am so happy for you!” She held me at arm’s length, beaming. “So, you will let us take you out to celebrate, right?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Now, Lourdes —”

“Don’t you ‘now Lourdes’ me! You’ve been putting us off for months! ‘I have to study,’ and ‘oh, I couldn’t,’ and ‘I just want to catch some sleep.’ You have no classes, it’s the weekend, and you just got big news!”

“You know Katie’s had a long week, though –”

“Don’t you try hiding behind Katie! You know what she’ll say when she hears the news!”

Well, that was certainly true. In fact, Katie would have found an equally good reason to go out drinking if my news had been all bad. The rationales were in constant flux, but the goal was always the same. Still . . . “With that software transition, she hasn’t gotten home before nine all week!”

“It’s Friday, and she will be here any –”

“Biiiitches! It’s Friiiiiiiday!!!!!” Katie blew through the door like an armor-piercing shell through rice paper. Raising bare arms over her curly blonde locks and shimmying her whole, lithe body, she hollered, “Time to PAR-ty!!!”

Lourdes looked at me, triumphant. “You see?”

Shaking my head, I conceded the point. “Yeah, well, there really wasn’t any doubt, was there?”

Katie’s feral grin got even larger as she saw my expression and guessed my news. She began to chant, “ParTY, ParTY, ParTY!!!!”

“Okay, guys, it’s just —”

Lourdes joined Katie to drown out my feeble protest. “ParTY, ParTY, ParTY!!!”

I threw up my hands, then hugged them both. “Okay, okay! You win!”

“I should hope so,” Lourdes said, sounding smug. “You are always so serious. Now, where should we –”

“Copper Door, girl. Gotta be!” Katie squealed. “Screaming hot band tonight – everyone’s gonna be there!”

“Well . . . .”

“Sweet!” Katie sang, pleased at her choice. “I’ve got just the thing to wear, and we’re gonna get you outta that drab shit!”

I threw up my hands. What could I do? “Okay, you crazy bitch! We’re in your hands!”

She threw back her head, hair streaming loose down her back, and hollered, “Yippee-kai-aaye!!!!” Then she bounced down the hall to the room she shared with Lourdes.

Lourdes looked at me and smiled softly. “I know . . . you would maybe rather curl up on the couch in your flannel nightgown and watch something romantic on TV. But Camencita, my love, you can do that when you’re forty . . . or seventy.”

I gave her arm a squeeze. “I know, Lourdes. I do need to get out.”

“You won’t do the dating apps.”

I shivered. “Hell, no!”

“And you won’t date anyone from work.”

“I got ya, Chica. Honest!”

“Okay. So we will try Katie’s way tonight. Who knows?”

Nightclubs are just walls of sound that reduce human interaction to its most primal level, but . . . . “There’s dancing, right?”

“All night – well, at least until 2:00 a.m.!”

“All right, then – I’ll be fine!” I returned her smile, and allowed myself to get into the mood. “And I’ve got just the dress for it!” I thought about the stretchy, sequenced LBD I’d picked up on sale the last time I’d gone to a mall to pick up something for work. It had just leaped out at me, and I knew I had shoes that would look great with it.

Ten minutes later, I wasn’t so sure. I don’t remember it being THIS short! The dress hugged my ass tightly, and came down just low enough to provide it with full cover. The neckline was low and revealing as well. Errrrr . . . .

I heard a sharp rap on my door, then Katie poked her head in. “Damn, girl!!!”

“Well, now that I see it on . . . .”

“Don’t you even think about taking that off – That’s what guys are for!!”

“Katie!”

She’d opted for a very hot red, herself, which suited her coloring. Still in bare feet, she pushed into the room and took my hands. “Carmen, you slay! I wish I had legs like yours, and if I did you can bet your sweet, round ass I’d be showing them off just as much! Now, sit down. Let me do your hair, and I’ll get Lourdes to do your makeup.”

I’m perfectly capable of doing my own fluffing, but Katie’s a genius with hair and when it comes to makeup, Lourdes actually is a professional; she works in a skin-care boutique out on Fashion Island. I sat down, Katie hollered for Lourdes, and she started running her hands through my hair, humming happily as she held it one way, then another. “If I was into girls, you’d be in big trouble. You know that, right?”

I laughed. “Thankfully, I also know you're as straight as an I-Beam.”

“Too right. Something about a big, strong, chest, a six pack right where it belongs, and sweet, hot –”

“Okay, okay!!! I get the picture. Slut!”

“Booyah, baby!”

Lourdes appeared in my doorway and gave us a fond look. “She is scandalizing you again, Carmen?”

“Well, yeah. Wouldn’t be a Friday night without it, right?”

“Or any other day that ends in ‘y,’” Katie said smugly.

In an effort to divert Katie’s graphic imagination, I asked her how things had gone with her project at work.

“Lawyers!” She made a face. “Sorry, I know you’re working your squeezable ass off to become one, but Jesus! Any moron should be able to manage our new billing software, but half the partnership is acting like it’s the end of the frickin’ world.”

My phone started to ring, but I was pinned in place. “Lourdes, can you check that?”

She fished my phone out of my purse and looked at it. “Spam – just says it’s from Buttonwillow, CA.”

Katie was the first to recite our mantra. “Towns don’t call people.”

“Nope,” I agreed, once my heart started beating again. I would never forget Buttonwillow, but . . . I’d also never stop trying. I suppose whatever evil software tracks these things knew that I did occasionally talk to one person there, and that’s all they needed. “I don’t want to talk about my car’s extended warranty tonight.”

Lourdes dropped the phone back in my purse. “You should put a different color on your nails, too.”

“Nah – I want to get moving. We should get something to eat before we go to the club, and I’m hungry!”

“That will complicate what I want to do with your makeup tonight, but . . . okay. I can make it work.”

“You’re too good to me.”

“We are, aren’t we?” Katie asked. “But you don’t suck as a roomie, when you can get your head out of a book.”

“Love you too, bitch!”

“That’s the spirit!” She handed me a mirror. “How’s that?”

She’d twirled it in a way I couldn’t imagine replicating, and only a few strands dangled past my left ear. “You’re amazing.”

“I’m the queen of the castle!” she sang. “All yours, Lourdes!”

“Right. Sit still now,” Lourdes ordered. Her hands started to fly to various items on the top of my dresser. I sat back and let her work her usual magic. She’s good – but she can also be very fast when she wants to be, and she did twice as well as I ever could, in about half the time.

I walked back to the full-length mirror on the back of my closet door and looked at the complete package. Not half bad, Chica! Eight years ago, I‘d have killed to look this good. “I . . . okay.” I took a deep breath. “I guess I can . . . .”

Lourdes laid a hand gently on my shoulder. “Carmen. You look wonderful. Stop doubting yourself.”

“Wonderful? Shit, you ROCK!” Katie shook her head. “You gotta own it, girl!”

I closed my eyes, calmed my mind, then nodded once, sharply. “Okay. I’m good. Let’s get going!”

“Where to?” Katie asked.

“How about tapas?”

“You thinking Bacchus?” Katie sounded up for it.

“Sure. That work for you, Lourdes?”

She smiled. “Always.”

“Let’s go then. I’ll drive.”

Lourdes shook her head. “Let me be the DD tonight. You should feel free to celebrate.”

“You don’t have to –”

“Drinking’s not important to me, Carmen, you know that,” she said, cutting me off.

Katie looked on, amused. “Just don’t volunteer me for that duty!”

Lourdes and I laughed. “Oh, certainly not!” I said, with horror, that was only half joking. Katie worked hard, exercised hard, and partied harder.

Bacchus was a short drive from our apartment; it took us no time to get there. Dressed as we were, we caused quite the stir when we walked in, Katie leading the way with her take-all-comers catwalk swagger. I was only too happy to glide along in her wake.

The host eyed us appreciatively – the kind of look that makes you feel a little tingly, not creeped out. A young, well-built guy, he had warm, dark eyes that made me think of dancing. “Good evening, ladies.” Nice, smooth baritone, too. “Can I get you a table, or would you rather sit in the bar area?”

I said “table” at the same moment that Katie said, “the bar’s great.” We laughed.

The host smiled, displaying nearly perfect teeth. “Shall I toss a coin for you?”

“No,” Katie laughed. “I’ll let the introvert win this one. When we get to the dance club, though, it’s game on!”

He led us smoothly to a table, passed out menus, and assured us that Dante, our waiter, would be with us directly.

My phone pinged with a text and I fished it out. “Hope you’re celebrating!” Dwayne.

I sent my boss a big smile emoji and a thumbs up. I was about to put the phone away when I saw that I had a voicemail. Probably just the “hello” spammers send to try to get you to talk, but I figured I’d clear it.

The fierce, commanding voice I remembered so well from my youth sounded as direct and imperative as ever. “So yo. Tu padre tuvo un derrame cerebral. Ven a casa ahora. Ahora!”

Lourdes and Katie were talking about our waiter, but Lourdes immediately knew something was wrong and stopped. “Carmen? Carmen? What is it?”

I was staring blankly at my phone, lost in a swirl of memories, some of them awful, and most of them worse. No!!!

“Carmen!”

I tried to draw a breath; it came in ragged. “I’m sorry . . . I need to go home.”

Katie said, “What? What happened!”

Seeing my bloodless face, Lourdes looked shaken. “Who called you, Carmencita?”

“Abuela.” On autopilot, the word came out in Spanish. It’s how we’d always spoken to each other, when it was just the two of us. While her English was serviceable she preferred the language of her homeland, and unlike some of his brothers, Padre had insisted that I grow up bilingual. I’m not that person anymore! I forced my brain to function in English again.

“My grandmother.”

~o~O~o~

“Jesus, woman! Can you hear yourself? They threw you out! Fuck them!”

Back in the apartment, I’d taken seconds to strip out of my clubbing dress and change into a nondescript top and capris, before stuffing things randomly into my suitcase. Katie, deprived of her planned night out, was pissed.

No, I told myself sternly. Don’t take it out on her. That’s not why she’s angry. “I know. I was there. But – ”

“But nothing!” Katie hand chopped down like an ax. “He had a stroke. You’ve got a big family, and from everything you’ve told us, they’re, like, all right there. Let them deal with him!”

“You haven’t met them.” My tone was more abrupt than I liked, but I was having trouble containing my own temper.

“I don’t want to meet them. You don’t want to meet them. Not again, anyway.”

“No.”

“Girl, listen!” She grabbed my shoulders and spun me to face her. “You have a job here. Responsibilities. You can’t just . . . .”

“Katie, stop.” Lourdes’ calm voice still conveyed her urgency. “She knows all this.”

“Then why . . . .” She stopped, shaking her head, clearly at a loss to understand me. And I didn’t have time to make it right.

“Your Abuela, right?” Lourdes asked me softly.

I slumped. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” Katie said, impatient. “She’s your grandmother and all. So what? She didn’t protect you when you were thrown out of your dad’s house, did she?”

Again, I said, “no,” my voice flat.

I could still hear her words, all these years later. “El es tu Padre. A él le corresponde decirlo.” And that was that. He is your father. It is for him to say.

“Then what do you owe her?”

“Everything.” I thought it, but Lourdes said the words.

“I don’t get it,” Katie said, looking from Lourdes to me, exasperated.

“Tell her, Querida,” Lourdes urged.

How am I supposed to do THAT? Even my thoughts included a snort. I’d met Katie’s grandma — one of them, anyhow. A perfectly pleasant woman from Loma Linda who’d raised the kids while her husband managed a BofA branch. I understood she played a mean game of golf. Maybe bridge, too. Who knows? How could Katie even begin to understand?

“She did it all. Dragged my grandfather out of Oaxaca when the jobs were good up here. My father and my uncles were born in a real hospital. They had a safe place to live, to work . . . citizenship. She worked two jobs . . . three when she had to. Held the family together when Grandfather disappeared back in Mexico. Pushed us all to learn English, to do good in school, to get ahead. I mean, most of us didn’t. God knows, my family’s got its share of fuckups. But still . . . she was the rock.”

“She let them throw you out,” Katie repeated, livid and unmoved.

And I’ll take that wound to my grave. “Yes. But I still have to go.”

“Will you even be safe?”

“It’s not Kandahar, Katie!”

She made a rude noise. “Might as well be. They grow rednecks up there like cabbages.”

“Cotton,” I said absently. Her worry wasn’t irrational, though “redneck” was a strange term to apply to an area that had so many immigrants from Mexico. “I . . . it’s been a lot of years. No one will remember Carlos Morales,” I deliberately deadnamed myself. “And they won’t think of him when they see me.”

“You hope!”

I chuckled ruefully. “Now you tell me I can’t pass!”

“It’s not that! You look awesome and you know it!” Katie’s face suddenly crumpled into tears. “Fuck! I’m just worried about you, that’s all!”

I held my arms open and she crashed into me, hugging me hard. I reached up to stroke her fine, blond curls. “I know, Katie. I know. I love you, too. But I still have to go.”

“Only because you’re stubborn as . . . . Well, as something. I don’t personally know anything as stubborn as you!”

“You say the sweetest things.”

“You’re such a butt!”

Lourdes stood in the doorway, her expression troubled. “Ve con Dios, Carmen,” she said softly.

~o~O~o~

Two hours and a terse phone call later, my eight-year-old Kia was demonstrating its anemic acceleration on an incline as I pushed it through the Tehachapi mountains that separate the LA basin from California farm country. Every mile north through the I-5 Grapevine brought me closer to Kern County and to Buttonwillow, the nothing town where I had been brought up. Yeah. Like a cat brings up a hairball!

I forced myself to relax my grip on the steering wheel. My tension had nothing to do with traffic, however insane. Ever since the pandemic, it seemed like people had forgotten how to drive, but I could cope with that.

Family, on the other hand . . . .

– To be continued

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.

 

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 who refused to intervene. She has only kept in touch with one family member in the twelve years since she left.

Chapter 2: Kelsey

Driving up Interstate 5 was like going back in time, and not just because modern urban and suburban sprawl gave way to views that hadn’t changed all that much since the Spaniards arrived. It was also an unwelcome trip back through my own history. North of suburban Orange County, where I’d moved for school and work, I drove through the heart of LA itself – my first, and most brutal, “home away from home.” And then, mile by mile, I followed in reverse the route I had taken twelve years before, reliving that first, frightening night.

The highway’s “Grapevine” curls and twists, but at the northern end it straightens and makes a long, slow descent. The view opens up. On a clear day, you can see the highway running straight through farm country for over 100 miles, while at night the lights of Bakersfield are visible from twenty miles away. At the sight, my stomach clenched, knowing I was close.

Before I knew it – before I was ready for it – I took the offramp and headed west on Hagman Road. The night seemed unusually dry and cool, but maybe I’d just gotten used to living on the coast. I had forgotten the fierceness of stars, away from the smog and light pollution of the city. The silhouette of the coastal mountains directly ahead of me was sharp and clear against a brilliant starfield.

I’d grown used to city smells, as well. Rolling down my windows, shivering a little in the midnight coolness, I took in the very different odors of San Joaquin Valley farmland. A city girl would call it “earthy,” I suppose. To me, though . . . .

So many smells you don’t even notice until you get away. Fertilizer, partly; it was always a strong smell. But the crop dusters still did aerial applications of pesticides and defoliants. Other smells, too, subtler. Deeper. The smell of growing things, of rich, fertile soil . . . .

It was the smell of childhood. Once, it had been the smell of “home.” Even now, the odors, so familiar, were triggering an avalanche of memories. I shivered again, this time for reasons unrelated to the temperature outside.

I rolled up the windows.

Buttonwillow isn’t far from the highway that connects it to the wider world like an umbilical cord. In no time I was passing Mendoza’s grocery, where I used to work summers and after school. Closer in, the massive towers of the big power substation, then the baked dirt of the baseball “field” where I had discovered I had no athletic talent whatsoever.

I heard them behind me, standing well back from the “diamond” formed by four ragged scraps of plywood, our rough-and-ready bases. Naturally there was no bench, no baseline. I heard the snickers as I took my “stance” in the batter’s box and stared at the pitcher, desperately trying not to show any fear of the hard ball he was as likely to throw at my head as anything that might resemble a strike zone. Heard the frustration in Tomas’ voice as he muttered, “We finally load up the bases, and it has to be Carlos.” Diego quieted him, though I didn’t catch all of what he said. Just the end. “Gotta have nine players, Compa. Let it go.” My eyes smarted and I wondered how I let Diego talk me into this . . . again. But I knew. Of course I knew. Diego could talk me into anything.

Past the dirt field, a quick right, an immediate left, and there I was. Just another tract house, squat and low. A California ranch indistinguishable from any other, but for the street address painted on the curb in faded black-on-white.

I brought the car to a stop, shut off the lights and the engine and – superfluously – engaged the parking brake. The San Joaquin is so flat that even a ball bearing probably wouldn’t roll anywhere.

I sat for a moment more, gathering myself for the first encounter with my past. Taking in the sounds of Buttonwillow, such as they were. I snorted. If New York is the city that never sleeps, Buttonwillow is an overgrown truckstop that never wakes up. On the bright side, no one in Buttonwillow ever paid for parking.

Time to quit stalling. With a sigh, I got out, grabbed my suitcase from the back, and made my way to the front door of the place where my cousin lived. We’d been so close, once. She was the only one of my cousins – the only member of my family – that I’d kept in touch with. And I was so angry with her, I could barely bring myself to ring her doorbell.

As I dithered on the porch, the door jerked open. Light from within blinded me for a moment and I could barely make out the features of the backlit figure in the doorframe.

“Are you gonna stand there all night?”

I swallowed. “Kelsey.”

“You expected Taylor Swift?” She stood stock still, giving me a long look.

Her one-sided appraisal didn’t improve my temper. “Not what you remember?”

“Figures you’d end up with the looks. Bitch.” She sounded resigned rather than pissed.

No matter; I was annoyed enough for both of us. “I’d come in, if you’d get your butt out of my way!”

“Sure, fine. Come on in.” She moved aside and made a big show of waving her arms to urge me forward. “Shower your grace upon our humble home.”

“You make me lose my cookies on your carpet, I’m not cleaning it.” I stepped inside, but kept my attention on Kelsey. With the overhead light between us, I could see her features more clearly.

Kelsey hit puberty early and never topped five foot two. She’d been nicely rounded in high school – ripe curves in all the places guys noticed – but everything about her looked coarser now. Harder. Thicker in the waist, seemingly broader in the shoulders. The tangle of tattoos on her arms left no natural skin visible.

“Not what you remember, either?” Her tone challenged.

I shrugged. “It’s been a lot of years.”

“Yeah, twelve. And you never learned how to FaceTime?”

“Kels. You’re the only person I kept in touch with at all.”

“I know that. But you didn’t want me to see your face?”

“No.” I hadn’t wanted anyone from this damned place to see my face, ever again. And guess what? I thought, I still don’t.

She glared at me for a minute more before relenting. “Look, fine. I mean, not fine. But come on in anyway. I’m sure you’ll want to give me shit for spilling, and I’ll take it . . . a little. But don’t push me too far. I’ve already had to deal with the old witch beatin’ on me.”

She led the way into the living room. “Go on, sit. I’m getting a beer. You want?”

I didn’t, really, but . . . I needed to clear the air with Kelsey, so I agreed anyway. She disappeared into the kitchen and I took a quick look around. Big sectional couch with the long side facing a big flatscreen which was – mercifully – not on. Not much else in the room. It looked clean, but the lingering, treacly smell of weed couldn’t be missed.

“Here you go.” She handed me a Bud and plopped down on the long side of the couch, tucking one leg under her butt and looking expectant.

I took a seat on the short side more cautiously, sitting forward rather than leaning back, and popped the can. It was cold, it was wet, and sure as hell, it wasn’t going to get me drunk. All good things. “I’m sorry I yelled at you on the phone.” A lie, but a necessary one.

She waved her beer can dismissively. “I expected it.”

“You didn’t volunteer the information?”

“Nooooo . . . but, look. Prob’ly five years back or so, I said something to Joaquim at some family thing. Just to let him know, sort of, that you were okay, you know? Nothing specific.”

“And he told Abuela that you knew how to reach me.”

She shrugged. “I’m guessing. ‘Cuz that crazy bitch was sure convinced that I knew, and nothin’ I could say would shake her.”

“She’s not crazy.”

“Sue me. Anyway. One outta two isn’t bad.”

Kelsey should have known better than to tell my younger brother; Joaquim couldn’t be trusted with secrets. I couldn’t fault her too much for wanting to reassure him, but I was surprised that she’d thought he would care.

Kelsey was staring at my chest, hard. “Those real?”

“Define ‘real.’”

“Ooooh, listen to the college grad-u-ate! You sound like what’s his name – you know. The history teacher.”

Since the only history teacher she could possibly be referring to was as unforgettable as his full, imposing, hidalgo name, I assumed she was just trying to wind me up. I took a sip of my beer-flavored drink and said, “Cortez.”

“Yeah, that guy.” When I didn’t say anything more, she tried again. “C’mon, give. They’re real?”

“They don’t come off, if that’s what you mean.”

“So you did have surgery.”

“You want all the details?” I made sure my tone discouraged further inquiry.

“Shit, yeah. We talked about it often enough, when you were over at my place, wearing my stuff, and moaning about how much you wanted to be a girl.”

And hadn’t THAT worked out well? “Maybe some other time. Look, Kelsey, can you fill me in on what’s going on? I was too mad to talk when I called earlier, and all Abuela said in her message was that Padre had a stroke.”

She nodded. “Yeah, okay. I’ll want the tea later though.” She cradled her beer in her lap. “I don’t know a lot of details. Apparently he was out in the fields and just keeled over. No-one noticed for a while, though. I don’t know how long he was down before they found him and got an ambulance. They took him to Mercy in Bakersfield. Far as I know, he hasn't regained consciousness.”

“Jesus! He isn’t even fifty!”

She looked surprised. “He’s not? Oh, I guess that’s right. Next year, though, right? Anyhow . . . You gotta know, he’s lived a pretty tough life.”

“If you mean, ‘he’s made a lot of bad choices,’ I won’t argue with you.”

“Yeah, well. At least he’s not in prison,” she said sourly.

Ouch. “Sorry, Kels. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“It is what it is. Papi . . . .” She paused a moment, selecting her words with care that didn’t come naturally. “Papi was desperate. Stupid. But he never would have thrown me out like your Padre did. I wouldn’t trade places.”

My mind conjured memories of Uncle Fernando’s face – his shocked, horrified, saddened eyes – that terrible day when he walked into Kelsey’s room and found me there in one of her sundresses and makeup. “Juan must be told.” And my own cry, etched in my brain with the acid of my despair. Noooooooo! Please, No!!!!!

I found my eyes closing in pain as the memories hit me hard. I took a deep breath, then another, before opening them again.

Kelsey eyed me skeptically. “You gonna make it?”

“Hell if I know.”

I heard a door open and the sound of heavy footsteps, then a large, well-built man wearing boxers and a tank top wandered into the room. My heart lurched, painfully.

He gave Kelsey a look. “Gorda, you’re gonna be sorry in the morning.”

She rolled her eyes. “Dace, this is Carmen. Carmen, Dace.”

I’d known Kelsey was living with Diego Gutierrez’ older brother; she’d mentioned it in one of our infrequent calls. But Dace hung with a different crowd back then and I hadn’t known him. What I hadn’t expected, though I suppose I should have, was just how much he looked like the boy I’d so-very-secretly admired as far back as middle school. The boy who could talk me into anything. Who I would have followed anywhere.

Dace turned his dark eyes my way. “Hey. Glad I finally got to meet the real black sheep of the family.”

“Dace!” If Kelsey could blush, she would have, but with her complexion you’d never know.

I tried my best to put on a smile, hoping it didn’t look as sick as I felt. “That’s me.”

His inspection unsettled me, like he was looking for signs of the boy I had been. Of the man I never became. But he looked away before it got too uncomfortable, and turned his attention back to Kelsey. “Sorry, but you did tell me to remind you. Tomorrow’s a work day.”

“Yeah, okay. You’re right. . . . Look, Carmen. Like I told you on the phone, you can absolutely crash here, but all's I’ve got’s the couch. Diego’s got the other bedroom, and even though he’s off in Oregon for the summer, he was real clear that we’re s’posed to stay out of his room.”

“You don’t want to mess with Diego’s shit,” Dace warned.

I didn’t know Diego lived here, too! I stopped an involuntary shiver before it got out of hand. “The couch is fine, guys. Really. I’m not planning on a long visit.”

Kelsey uncurled herself from the couch and looked down at me. “You might not be planning it, but that old bitch might have other ideas.”

I stood. “I can hardly wait to hear them.”

Kelsey got me a pillow and a light blanket, and I lay down, my mind whirling with memories and worries. I couldn’t stay mad at her for long; we had too much history for that. But I had plenty of other things to keep me upset, and it took a bit before exhaustion dragged me into unconsciousness. I was sitting down, about to have a celebratory dinner, just hours ago. Amazing how fast life can go sideways.

~o~O~o~
Kitchen noises woke me up while it was still dark outside. My mental clock kicked in and told me it was probably around 5:30. Stifling a groan, I got myself vertical and headed to the bathroom.

I looked vomitous. Dark circles under worried eyes, and one of the worst cases of bedhead I’d seen in a long time. Plus, my shoulder hurt from how I’d slept. I needed . . . well, a lot of things, really. Mostly, I needed to get my shit together, because the day promised nothing but trouble.

I sat down and did my business, thinking with a grimace of distaste that I’d need to take care of my weekly dilation regime here in the bathroom if I wasn’t home in two days. There’s a stupid thing to be worried about . . . .

I’d thrown a bathrobe into my suitcase when I was randomly stuffing it, so I wore that to the kitchen to find out the order of the day.

Kelsey sat at a formica table with an egg and some dry toast, a mug of dark black coffee firmly attached to her right hand. “Morning,” she said. “Sleep okay?”

I shrugged. “Not really. My brain’s having trouble shutting down. You got any more coffee?”

“Keurig’s by the toaster oven.”

“Got it. Thanks.” I went over and popped a pod into the machine. The mugs were sensibly stored right above it. “Dace said you’re working today?”

“Yeah, my crew’s doing the weekly cleanup at a big accounting firm and a mid-sized law firm today.”

“So, Bakersfield.”

She nodded. “Almost all our jobs are there, ‘cept the big one for the Motel Six here in town.”

I thought about that for a minute while my coffee finished brewing. Unlike Kelsey, I like it white, so I found some milk in a fairly sparse fridge, then joined her at the kitchen table. “Kelsey, why are you still here?”

“I assume you mean, ‘here in Buttwipe,’ not ‘here in Dace’s house.’”

“Yeah. I mean, I know you two are an item, but you said he’s doing construction and odd jobs; that’s mostly got to be Bakersfield, too, right?”

She waggled her fingers. “Here, he’s the genius everyone calls to do their sheetrocking. In Bakersfield, he’s just another guy. But . . . sure. Most of his bigger jobs are in the city.”

I kept quiet and watched her drink her coffee and think.

“It’s a shorter trip from here to visit Papi. I try to make it once a week. But . . . I guess, this is just home, you know? I get this place. These people.”

“And here I thought you were dying to get out. Before my scandal, you were always the black sheep.”

“Yeah, well. That was mostly Papi, too. He was the wild child who went charging off to Fresno for construction work, lived ‘in sin,’ and came home with me.”

I snorted. “Fresno. You make it sound like San Francisco!”

“Might as well be, far as this town’s concerned.”

“You left out the part where he lured his impressionable younger brother up there to join him for a summer.”

“I kinda figured you’d remember that bit of family lore.”

“Seeing as how I’m the result of it? Yeah, I remember.”

“The old witch never forgave Papi for that.”

“Or for you?”

“I don’t know.” She gave me a thoughtful look. “She’s never said a nice word to me that I can remember. But she’s never said a nice word to anyone else, either. And she did take me in for a few months, after Papi was arrested and lost the house.”

“I don’t think you told me that.”

“Might have been one of those stretches when you disappeared.” She gave me a sour look. “Since I wasn’t supposed to call you, some news got stale by the time we talked.”

I grimaced again, feeling acutely uncomfortable. “I’m really sorry about that. I just . . . you know, dealing with this place really triggers me. I can’t even describe it.”

“I get the, ‘this place,’ Carmen. I don’t get why I do. I was always in your corner.” Her look was challenging, but I could see the hurt through it.

“It’s not your fault,” I assured her. “None of it is. Look, there were lots of good things about growing up here. I know that in my head. Family picnics, and riding my bike without worrying about being squashed like a cotton aphid. Target practice out in the desert. Swimming in Uncle Angel’s pool. Innie, with all her crazy ideas. You, more than anything or anyone. But, I can’t think of anything here, not even the good things . . . not even the best things . . . without all the rest coming back, too. It’s . . . Kels. I’m sorry. It’s just too much, most times.”

Her expression didn’t soften much. “Okay. I’ll let it go. But there were times I could have used you, too. Know what I’m saying? And I couldn’t even call you.”

Her hurt cut me deep, because she was right. It had taken everything I had just to keep myself from falling apart for the first couple years after I left, and then I’d focused all of my energy on becoming strong and independent and self-sufficient. I wasn’t there yet, by a long stretch . . . but I could have spared something for the cousin who’d always been there for me. I hadn’t.

I reached a hand across the table, palm up. Her choice. “For what it’s worth . . . I’m sorry. I should have been there for you.”

My hand lay there for a long minute before, reluctantly, she covered it with her own and squeezed. “Okay.”

“I’ll . . . I’ll try to be better. Really.”

Another squeeze, then she let go and rose. “I’d better get on the road. Check online to see what visiting hours are at Mercy. I assume it’s not for a while yet.”

I stood. “I’ll get the dishes. And Kelsey?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For everything.”

A smile played at the corners of her lips. “You’re alright, Carmen. You just think too much. Always did.”

“Always will.”

And with that, she was off. She disappeared into the garage and I heard her depart a minute later on a Yamaha that badly needed a little muffler work. Knowing Kelsey, she probably viewed that as a plus.

It occurred to me that I was alone in the house with Dace, and that made me more nervous than I’d like. I didn’t know him at all. Although I thought he might have been a senior when I was a freshman — wasn’t he in Emilina’s class? — I didn’t have any memory of him. But his strong resemblance to Diego was enough to trigger heart palpitations and a host of memories.

Still, as I’d said last night (or, really, early this morning), I wasn’t planning to stay long. I would just have to deal with it in the meantime. I washed and dried the dishes and spent a bit of time figuring out where they went. Then I rifled through my suitcase, got what I needed for the day, and went off to the bathroom to work on it.

The family would know who I was if they ran into me, or if I ran into them. I’d rather avoid that if possible, but I had to be ready to deal with it. And of course, there would be no avoiding Abuela; I’d known that even without Kelsey’s warning. At the thought of facing our iron matriarch again, I shivered.

Family aside, I wanted as few people as possible to recognize me. I couldn’t blend in; Buttonwillow is so small that everybody knows everyone who lives here and I’d be marked as an outsider immediately. But I didn’t much resemble the scrawny boy who left before his eighteenth birthday, so there was no real reason why they would connect a random outsider to the extended Morales clan. Outsiders came to town for lots of reasons, like the speedway. Mostly they stayed at the Motel Six, but there were other options. I just needed to make sure that I looked like a normal, unremarkable woman in her late twenties.

What to wear? Not a dress; not even to go into Bakersfield. Slacks and a top would probably be best, but I decided to push the envelope and wear a light cotton calf-length skirt instead. I paired it with a form-fitting tank top and a light, floral printed shirt top with three-quarter sleeves that I could take off when it warmed up. That done, I spent a minute repacking my bag; I’m not a fan of the type of disorder my hurried departure had forced on me.

I took my time with my hair and make-up. The hospital people needed to see I was a professional, so they would take me more seriously. It shouldn’t matter, but I knew enough to know it did. My shoulder-length hair was dark and full — my father’s coloring, but my mother's natural curl. I wonder where she is, these days?

I shook that thought off. I hadn’t heard from Mom since I was nine – no-one in the family had, as far as I knew. Wherever she’d gone, she’d taken my baby brother Domingo with her. He’d be twenty-three now . . . hard to imagine. But in my hurt at her decision to abandon me and Joaquim, I had never tried to find her, either.

If you had wanted me, you knew where I was.

God, this place was pulling memories out of my skull like weeds! I had to take care of this business with my father and get out before I reverted to the borderline suicidal wreck I’d been when the trucker had given me a ride south . . . .

I checked myself in the mirror. Good enough. Time to get going.

But I bumped into Dace, still clad in boxers and a tank, as I left the bathroom. “Well, damn,” he said with slow appreciation. “Don’t you clean up nice.”

“Sorry I took so long,” I said, feeling the nervousness fighting against my control.

He waved it off. “Don’t worry about it. We got a master bathroom. You catch Kels on her way out?”

“Yeah. She left maybe half an hour ago.”

He grunted noncommittally. “‘Kay. Did she say when she’d be home?”

“No, I don’t think so. She just said her team had two offices to clean in Bakersfield.”

“Yeah, fine. I was thinkin’ about dinner, but she’ll be back in plenty of time for that. You off to the hospital?”

“Uh huh. Soon as they’re open.”

“You got time. Want to join me for a smoke? Calm your nerves some.”

I remembered the smell of weed, and tried to keep my reaction from showing. “No, but thanks. I’m going to need all my wits today.”

“Don’t affect your smarts none, girl. Just makes you more . . . you know. Mellow.”

I was starting to get annoyed as well as nervous, but I didn’t want to set him off. “I might need to get angry today, depending on what’s going on at the hospital. But thanks for the offer.”

He just stood in the hallway looking at me. Finally he shrugged and said, “You do you.” But he didn’t move out of the way.

Feeling foolish and vulnerable, I squeezed past him, muttering “‘scuse me.” As I grabbed my purse and headed for the door, I could hear his low chuckle and sense his eyes following me.

Getting back behind the wheel was a relief. I switched my radio to KCHJ for the first time in forever, and pointed the car east. Let’s get this over with.

Fast.
 
– To be continued
 
Author's note: I would like to thank Sara Keltaine and Joanne Barbarella for beta reading these first few chapters.

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.

 

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 who refused to intervene. In the twelve years since she left, she had only kept in touch with her cousin Kelsey, so she crashes on Kelsey’s couch when she arrives in Buttonwillow. After difficult encounters with both Kelsey and Kelsey’s boyfriend Dace, Carmen prepares to see her father. Meanwhile, Katie and Lourdes, her roommates back in Santa Ana, worry about whether she will be alright.

Chapter 3: The Matriarch

I didn’t need the big blue letters on the yellow bridge to tell me I was back in Bakersfield, California. Of course, growing up it had just been “the city,” the commercial and political center of Kern County. Probably 400,000 people lived there now. Having spent the last decade in LA and Orange County, it felt small and provincial in a way it hadn’t when I was young.

Hell, it is provincial. The kind of place that sent an empty suit like Kevin McCarthy to Congress, year after year.

But it had the things you could depend on any American population center to have. The Walmarts and Targets, Best Buys and Dollar Generals, supermarkets, wholesale clubs, Home Depots . . . and, of course, McDonalds, Taco Bell, In-N-Out. Also, critically, Starbucks, where you can reliably get coffee and free WiFi. I headed there first, since I knew I was up too early for visiting hours, but hadn’t wanted to spend any more time than necessary alone in the house with Dace.

Everything I was encountering, from Kels and Dace to the chain stores to the smells of farmland, seemed to trigger memories from childhood. Some were good, like I’d told Kelsey. A few. But others? Yikes. I’d been certain I was trans since I was little, but deeply, deeply closeted. What was even worse, in some ways, was that by high school I was starting to understand I was attracted to guys. The combination wasn’t a recipe for floods of happy memories.

The world was spinning, hurling around me as I desperately tried to keep on my feet, fighting the tears that would make everything a million times worse. “Dance, Puto!” It came out as a sneer, the youth’s face showing contempt as he twirled me around, his hands effortlessly gripping my T-Shirt. I could hear the fabric tearing, and the laughter of his friends, gathered in a circle to watch the sport . . . .

The sound of a car’s horn behind me snapped me out of my waking nightmare. The light was green and I touched the gas, ashamed of the panic that was seizing me. It was half a lifetime ago! Why can’t I just let it all go?

By the time I got to the Starbucks I had calmed down again. I just had to get this done, and get back to my life. My real life. I was done with Buttonwillow, and Bakersfield, and every arid acre of Kern County.

Once I was seated with latte and fruit cup, I pulled out my phone and saw, guiltily, that I had several texts from Lourdes and Katie, wanting to make sure I was okay.

Lourdes: Carmen, are you okay?

Katie: Talk to us, girl!

Katie: Yo! 1:00 am. You got there safe?

Lourdes: Please let us know you arrived safe.

The last message was from just about the time I left Buttonwillow. I typed back,

Made it safe. My cousin put me up.

Lourdes fired back immediately, How is your Padre?

Haven’t seen him yet. I’ll know in an hour. I thought a moment and added, I honest to God hate this place.

Katie chimed in, No shit. Get your sweet, round ass back here!

Soon as I can. Promise.

Keep us posted.

Lourdes added a heart emoji, and I responded with a thumbs up.

The conversation was reassuring in a way – a desperately-needed touch with my own reality. But it also left me wondering what I was supposed to accomplish. What did Abuela expect me to do?

I thought about sending a message to Dwayne, my supervisor, but decided against it for the same reason. Until I knew why Abuela wanted me here, I wasn’t sure what I would tell him. Uncertainty roiled my stomach, causing me to regret the latte. I dropped the half-full cup in the trash on my way out.

~o~O~o~

“I’m here to see Juan Morales.”

The woman at the welcome desk looked harried. “Uh huh . . . just a minute.” She had a telephone cradled to her ear, generating a tinny but universally recognizable sound.

I caught my fingers drumming against my thigh and willed them to stop, but I couldn’t help thinking to myself, you couldn’t find out where he is while you’re sitting here listening to music on hold?

Finally a voice engaged on the other end of the phone, she provided some directions, and hung up. “Yes, can I help you?”

“Here to see Juan Morales? I think he might be in the ICU.”

She checked something on her computer monitor and said, “Yes, he’s there. Are you family?”

My treacherous brain served up a picture of his face, distorted by shock, rage, and disappointment. I have no daughter. And YOU are not my son! The last thing he’d ever said to me.

“Yes.” It was all the answer I intended to offer, and I ignored the woman’s expectant look.

“All right then,” she said, giving up. She gave me directions to the ICU main desk and let them know I was coming.

The woman at the ICU – I imagine she was a nurse, but what do I know? – gave me a once over and decided it was okay to let me into her domain. “Come with me, please. He’s not conscious yet, but he’s stable.”

“Will I be able to talk to a doctor, after I’ve seen him?”

This time she gave me a harder look. “You are family, yes?” Definitely a nurse.

I nodded.

“We’ll see what we can do. You understand we have rules concerning patient confidentiality.”

Oh, I certainly understood all that. I guess I’d need to be more forthcoming if I wanted to get any useful information. “I’m his daughter,” I explained as we approached an open door.

Inside the open door, standing beside a hospital bed that held a shrunken figure in an oxygen mask, was a woman in black, showing some strands of silver in hair she would certainly never deign to color. Older, maybe a bit thinner. Still beautiful, naturally. But she always hid it well, with her severe dress – never anything but black – and even more severe facial expressions. That much hadn’t changed.

The blue water sparkled in the bright summer sunlight as the chavos laughed and splashed. School was out and Uncle Angel was at the grill, surrounded as usual by the padres, beer, and loud opinions. His oldest child hadn’t joined us outside yet. New to her curves if not to her beauty, she’d doubtless intended a grand entrance of sorts. Perhaps she’d hoped that the presence of so many family members would give her cover, or at least delay any negative reaction.

She should have known better. Her mother, garbed head-to-toe in an unseasonable black cotton dress, leapt up from where she sat with her sisters-in-law, spitting fire from her dark eyes. “Lupe! That bathing suit is a scandal! Go and change at once!”

The woman in black had overheard my comment to the nurse, for the thunderclouds were already piling high and dark on her face by the time we came into view. “Juan has no daughter.” She made the last word sound like a curse.

“Aunt Maria.”

“Don’t call me that! You are no relative of mine,” she snarled. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry,” the nurse said, sounding anything but. “This is an ICU. We can’t have you both arguing here.”

I said, “I’m not arguing,” just as my Aunt said, “Then get that thing out of here!”

I stared at my aunt and my Morales blood ran hot – blood which she’d married, but didn’t share. “I am Juan Morales’ oldest child, whether my uncle’s wife likes it or not.” And I’m not the frightened stick of a boy you remember!

“Juan threw you out like the bad trash you are.” Waving abruptly at the silent, motionless figure in the bed, she spat, “You must be so pleased. Did you come to gloat?”

“That’s enough!” the nurse snapped. “Both of you! One more word, and you’re out of here!”

Aunt Maria folded her arms stubbornly. “You can’t make me leave! I’m family!”

“You want to try me?” The nurse’s eyes flashed. “I’ll have security march you off in handcuffs!”

Eager as I was to be gone, I didn’t want to give my pious Aunt the satisfaction of having me ejected, even if she got kicked out, too. Time to try to defuse the situation. “Really, it’ll be alright. If you can just give me a minute . . . .”

Aunt Maria cut me off. “You have no place here. Who even told you?”

“I did.”

The dry, unyielding voice of command came from behind me. I spun to find Abuela there, her dark, bony hand clenched around the biceps of a heavyset woman about my age, who . . . Jesus! Lupe?!

But I only spared my cousin a glance; as always, my grandmother drew eyeballs like a five-car pile-up. She was thinner than ever, casting her cheekbones into even higher relief, and highlighting the sharpness of her cleaver-like nose. Her dark eyes ignored me altogether.

Aunt Maria wasn’t done . . . yet. “Suegra, no! This . . . person doesn’t belong here!”

“Enough, woman!” Abuela barked.

“Listen, all of you,” the nurse said. “This is NOT happening, here, understand? I want every one of you out of here, right now!”

“No.” Abuela did not raise her voice or even turn her head. “There will be no more discussion. Maria, go home. Now.”

Aunt Maria opened her mouth to say something, but one look at Abuela’s face stopped her. She closed it with a snap, took a deep breath through her nasal passages, and said, “Yes, Suegra. But, how will you get home?”

“Carlos will see to it. Or Lupe will.” Abuela’s voice was dismissive.

I stood aside so my senior aunt could pass, feeling the heat of her scathing glance as she did. Lupe brought Abuela to the room’s only chair.

I looked at the nurse. “We’ll behave. Really.”

“I hear one raised voice – just one – and all of you are going to be permanently banned. Got it?”

“There will be no trouble,” Abuela said, her voice – as usual – evincing no doubt and permitting no debate.

The nurse had apparently encountered her kind before. She gave a satisfied nod and departed, leaving me with Abuela, Lupe, and whatever was left of Padre.

Moving closer to the bed, I looked down at the man who had first raised and then disowned me.

His large frame seemed shrunken, and heavy veins corded the sun-darkened hands that lay by his sides and on top of the blanket, one limp, the other clenched in an involuntary claw. The left side of his face, at least what was visible through the oxygen mask, was pinched. Dirty gray hair that had still been all black that last time I’d seen him, twelve years ago. I have no daughter!

Abuela’s face was turned to him as well, but she spoke to me. “You are here. Good. You need to take care of this. Of him.” Her face and voice displayed no give, no tenderness. She could have been discussing the need to fix a leaky roof.

But that was her way. I wouldn’t presume she felt nothing, seeing her youngest son like this. “What have the doctors told you?”

She wouldn’t look at me. “Not much. He’s ‘stable.’ They’re doing ‘tests.’”

I needed to put down a marker, though I expected she wouldn’t take it well. “Abuela, I came because you asked. But I can’t stay. I have work, and school. My life isn’t here.”

Her hand waved dismissively. “Not important. Your father needs you.”

“If he knew I was in the room, he would order me to leave.”

Her expression hardened, and she said softly, “Do you hear that, Juan? Do you want Carlos to leave?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but she beat me to it. “I say you stay. I don’t hear him objecting.”

“My name is Carmen. And your son was the one who told me he had no daughter.”

“You aren’t talking to him now. You are talking to me!”

I couldn’t help myself. Whatever her worries, she had to own her part in what had happened. “You didn’t stop him! You let him kick me out!”

“It was his decision to make. He is your father!”

“Fine, then.” I shook my head angrily. “He made it. He decided he didn’t want the job anymore, not me. And since you say he’s the decision maker, we’re done. Finished. I’ve got a life to lead.”

“My son can’t breathe without a machine!”

“I can’t do anything about that!” But I stomped down on my feelings, recognizing that she had other things on her mind. It wasn’t the time to resolve what was between us. “All I can do is sit here, like all the rest of you, and hope he gets better. That won’t do any good, and I’ll lose my job.”

The anger in her face was palpable; I felt an almost uncontrollable desire to step back. “You can do more. You must. These people, with their forms, and their questions. I don’t know what to tell them.”

“Abuela, you are surrounded by your family.” My voice betrayed my exasperation. “By his family – the ones he hasn’t rejected!” I thought of my brother, already well on his way to being a manly man at 14 when I left. “Dios! Why isn’t Joaquim here? Why don’t you ask him? Or my Uncles? Why me?”

“Silencio!” she barked, still keeping her face resolutely turned away from me. “I don’t have time for your self-pity. Your tio's are farmers; your brother works at the landfill. You were the one with the brains, just like your father. Always so smart with the books, both of you. Figure it out!”

I was lost. “Figure what out?”

“What’s this job you keep talking about?”

“Huh?”

“Your job, that’s supposed to be so important. Kelsey told me, when she stopped being stupid.”

“I work for an insurance broker.” The light dawned. “He’s . . . wait. Padre worked full time at Kern Cotton. He has to have insurance?”

“I don’t know!”

“Abuela, he has to,” I said again. “It’s just a question of looking it up.”

“There was nothing in his wallet. Joaquim doesn’t know. No one knows.”

I took a deep breath. So THAT’S what this is all about. “All right. I can help with that, I think. But if I’m going to talk to these people . . . the doctors, the staff . . . I’m guessing he doesn’t have a durable power of attorney.”

“Big words.” It was almost a sneer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Patience, Carmen! “You have to tell them that I’m Juan Morales’ daughter. You. His mother. You have to tell them, so they can talk to me about his medical condition without breaking the law.”

“You are Juan’s child.” Her voice was bloodless. Clinical.

“I’m his daughter, damn it!” I couldn’t hold my anger back any longer. “Look at me!”

She set her jaw, clenching it so hard I was surprised the bones didn’t crack. She managed to grind out, “I can’t.”

“You won’t.” It was all I could do to pitch my voice low enough that we didn’t bring the nurse back with a battalion of hospital security guards.

She shook her head, but still refused to look my direction.

“You won’t see me, because you refuse to see me! I’m nothing to you!”

“Carmen.” Lupe’s interjection stopped me cold, because she’d said nothing up to this point, and because she had, at least, given me my name. Her velvety voice was so familiar, except for the overtones of sadness and exhaustion that had never been there in her glory days as the high school trophy all the bucks fought over.

I looked at her . . . really looked, seeing past the strain, and all of the excess fat that was so out of place. Seeing the girl I remembered, but finding compassion in her eyes that I’d never associated with her before.

“She’s blind.”

My eyes just about burned a path back to Abuela as she sat, her face averted, looking like a wasp whose nest had been kicked over. Somehow, I managed not to gasp. She’s not THAT old! Mid-seventies? Right? Seventy-seven, tops!

It shouldn’t have been a surprise, though. I had an image of her, years before, bending over her sewing, straining to see the seams she was working on. These things happen, I told myself.

It shouldn’t have mattered either, but it shook me to the core. Abuela never, ever, showed any weakness. No wonder she’s pissed. Ten years ago, maybe even five, she would have just handled this. Like she had handled everything else, for herself and for the family.

The silence stretched out. Abuela said nothing, and Lupe just looked at me, waiting.

“Abuela,” I said finally. “I’m sorry —”

“Enough! We will not discuss these things further. Not my sight. Not your ‘life.’ You need to help my son.” Her face was flint.

My eyes burned and my head throbbed and my throat ached. Twelve years. I spent twelve fricking years pulling myself out of the dark alley where they’d kicked me. I’d built a life worth living, where I could be myself and not apologize for it. And still, after all this time, she could silence me effortlessly and reduce me to tears.

“Sí, Abuela.”

– To be continued

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.

 

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 . . . Tia 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?”

Tia 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

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.

 

After her father has a stroke, Carmen Morales is summoned back to the Kern County home she was kicked out of twelve years before, by the Grandmother – “Abuela” – who refused to intervene. She stays overnight with her cousin Kelsey and Kelsey’s boyfriend Dace. In the morning, she goes to the hospital, where she meets her Grandmother, her Aunt Maria, and her cousin Lupe. Abuela insists that she look after her father, because no-one in the family can deal with his insurance issues and Abuela herself is now blind. Carmen agrees to help, but her initial efforts to determine whether her father has insurance are unsuccessful.

Chapter 5: Echoes

The sign said “El Pero Sediento,” though I would always remember it as “Miguel’s.”

I guess that’s how Kelsey saw things, too, since that’s where she told me to meet her and Dace. “You can buy us dinner, big shot,” she’d texted when I left my brother. Since she was saving me the cost of a room at the Motel 6, I couldn’t complain.

It didn’t help that they wanted shots of tequila before they even looked at the menu. I begged off, though, using the same headache that kept me from Joaquim’s offer of a beer.

“You’re such a lightweight.” Kelsey’s humor had an edge, but that was nothing new.

I laughed it off. “Got soft living down south, you know? Forgot what hot really feels like.”

Kelsey clinked her shot glass with Dace’s, then hammered it back. “That’s better!”

“Tough day?” I guess my voice had its own edge.

“Fuckin’ A.” She slammed the glass back down with a crack. “So, what’s the word?”

I shrugged. “He’s in a coma. No telling if he can come out of it.”

A hiss escaped from between her front teeth. “Well, that sucks.”

“No argument.”

Dace set his shot glass down with less force. “Let’s get some food.”

“I’m guessing you washed out of sensitivity training,” Kelsey said sourly, giving him a look to match.

Rather than respond to Kelsey directly, Dace turned his dark eyes toward me. “You don’t look all broken up about it.”

“Jesus, Dace!”

I cut Kelsey off. “No, he’s right. Kind of. I mean . . . I should feel something, right? But I look at the guy in the bed, and I don’t even recognize him.”

“Like you didn’t recognize me?” she challenged.

“You’ve changed. You’ve all changed. You, Joaquim, Lupe. Abuela. But I recognize all of you. Padre, though . . . it was like I was looking at a complete stranger. He wasn’t there.”

Kelsey leaned back. “Sounds like you’ve been making the rounds.”

“Aunt Maria was with Padre when I arrived. Abuela and Lupe came in after – Abuela had to keep our senior aunt from clawing my eyes out. I couldn’t reach Uncle Augustin, but I talked to Innie – she had a bee up her butt, as well. Then I went and saw Joaquim.”

Dace shook his head. “Someone should have told your Abuela about birth control.”

Just the way he shook his head, the play of light and shadow on his thick, glossy hair, the jut of his chin . . . it could have been Diego sitting there. In fact, it had been . . . .

“Ooooh! I’m in heaven! She’s . . . Oh, sweet Jesus! Buenota!!!” Tomas leaned back from the picnic table and fanned himself theatrically, while the other boys chuckled knowingly. We often grabbed some nachos at Miguel’s after baseball; the Chilango who owned the place let us hang out if it wasn’t busy and we sat outside.

I turned my head to see what the fuss was about and was unsurprised to see Emilina, who’d started working there a summer or two before. Dressed in a white peasant blouse over tight, black, high-waisted pants, she cut a striking figure. Lean and tall for the women in our family, with a lively face and a dazzling smile.

I turned back to the rest and said, “Cochinos! She’s my cousin, okay? Can you keep your tongues off the pavement?

Diego barked a laugh, his teeth gleaming in the shadows under the big umbrella. “Wey, half the chavas around here are your cousins! What was the deal with your grandparents, anyway?”

With an effort, I forced myself back into the present moment. Kelsey had the comeback I hadn’t thought of, all those years before. “Shit, Dace, she only had five. Most of the kids we went to school with were from way bigger families.” She smirked. “Maybe your grandad’s huevos didn’t measure up?”

“Five?” He ignored Kelsey’s dig completely and looked at me. “I only know about four. Who’m I missing?”

“Padre was the baby,” I explained. “Uncle Angel’s the oldest – he’s married to Aunt Maria – then Uncle Augustin, then Kelsey’s Papi – Fernando – then Tio Javier.”

“Have I met Javier?” he asked Kelsey.

“Probably not. He and Tia Juana have a condo over in Taft. But he’s disabled and they don’t get out much. You probably know their son Jesus; he lives here with Uncle Augustin.”

“Oh, yeah. The gearhead. Let me guess – they all bred like rabbits.”

“Not Papi,” Kelsey said smugly. “I’m a golden only.”

“Three for Uncle Angel, two for Uncle Augustin, Tio Javier had four, and Padre had three,” I supplied. “A pretty good haul, I guess.”

Kelsey nodded. “And almost all of them are still here – or close enough, anyway. Carmen and Emelina were the only ones to get away.”

“’Lina was hot,” Dace remarked appreciatively. “I wanted to take her to prom, but she was already going out with that loser.”

“That loser” had gone into the Air Force and married Emilina when I was still in high school. Last I’d heard from Kels they were living near Anchorage and had a bunch of kids. When you grow up in Buttonwillow, that’s what success looks like.

Kelsey got to her feet. “Come on, let’s order.” Dace seemed oblivious to both her sour tone and her scowl.

We went to the window to get some food. I didn’t hold out a lot of hope that it would be good. Even though the San Joaquin Valley is one of the most fertile growing areas in the world, almost all the really good stuff gets shipped away. However, when I saw that they had Tlayudas on the menu, I decided there was hope.

While we waited, I got caught up on the doings of my family, which I didn’t really think of as large. Kelsey did most of the talking. Dace stayed quiet, but his expression suggested he found the whole subject of family to be boring. He kept shooting me glances, like he was sharing some kind of joke at Kelsey’s expense – can you believe she’s into all this shit?

Kelsey appeared to be well aware of what he was doing, and her tone grew increasingly sharp.

I couldn’t very well tell Dace he was being rude – he wasn’t even saying anything, after all. I also couldn’t think of any better plan than ignoring him, but that was surprisingly difficult. Not so much because of anything he was doing, but because his deep-set eyes, dark brows, and full lips kept tugging at my memories of his brother. He is NOT Diego, I told myself firmly.

The guy behind the counter called our number and Kelsey went to get it, leaving Dace and I in a silence that felt awkward. I tried to think of something innocuous to ask him, but my mind seemed blank.

“You don’t look much like Kels,” he observed. “Or ‘Lina.”

“Or anyone else in the family,” I agreed. “Except for my coloring, I take after my mom, I guess.”

His dark eyes didn’t waver, and the silence touched my memories.

Mercifully, Kels returned and dropped the tray on the table. “Here you go,” she said. “Buttonwillow’s best.”

I lost no time digging in, figuring it would break the odd tension even if the food was awful. Which, it turned out, was very much not the case. “Ay!” I closed my eyes to better savor the crispy char of the tortilla, the spicy pork and black beans, and the soft cheeses that held it all together. “Where was this place when we were growing up?”

“Well . . .” Kelsey paused her thought to swallow her first bite. “Abuela kind of snarks about having better in the poorest alleys in Oaxaca back in the day. But, yeah, it’s an upgrade over Miguel’s.”

I shook my head. “Headache or no headache, I’ve got to wash this down with beer.”

“First half-way smart thing I’ve heard you say,” Dace observed with a smirk.

Kelsey rolled her eyes. “Jesus, why are you such a dick?”

“It’s a gift from God.”

“He must hate you. Why don’t you go get the beers? What are you drinking, Carmen?”

I hadn’t paid attention to the options. “Something dark. I don’t care.”

“Dark!” Kelsey left no doubt about her opinion of my choice. “Find something dark for the city chica, and get me a Bud.”

Dace shrugged elaborately, smirked in my direction, and went back to the window.

When he was out of earshot, Kelsey shot me a look. “What’s with you two?”

My weird deja vu moments notwithstanding, I couldn’t imagine what she was talking about. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not gonna say this twice. Stay away from him.”

“What???” Kelsey’s warning — threat, more like! — caught me completely flat-footed.

“You’re eying each other like a pair of rabbits. Just knock it the fuck off, got it?”

I felt the blood rush to my face as a floodwall of boiling thoughts, emotions and memories threatened to overwhelm me. Barely aware of what I was doing, I pushed my chair back and rocketed to my feet, appetite gone in an instant.

Before I knew it, I was out in the parking lot, reaching for my keys. Kelsey was shouting something, but I didn’t stop to make sense of her words. All I could think of was putting miles between me and my family and my crappy hometown and all of my even crappier memories. Tires screamed in protest as I took the turn onto the open highway.

Once Buttonwillow was back in my rear-view mirror — where it fucking belonged! — I was able to get myself enough under control to stop driving like I was trying to outrun a tsunami. Since I had instinctively headed west, the better to get away from both Buttonwillow and Bakersfield, I needed my sunglasses to ward off the glare of the sun as it sank toward the hills ahead of me.

Was she right? Had he been looking at me . . . that way? Had I been looking at him? I didn’t think so. I really didn’t. I didn’t feel anything for Dace, and his mannerisms were a real turn-off. Somehow, he always seemed to be looking down on everyone. On the other hand . . . .

No. I am NOT going to think about Diego. I’m NOT.

But I knew every stretch of open road within thirty miles of Buttonwillow and each place had its share of memories that pulled at me, claiming my attention. Drawing me this way and that. I saw a familiar gravel turn-off and I slowed the car to take it. On an empty hillside facing east I parked the car and set the parking brake. Nothing around but chaparral and scrub – small, spiny vegetation that can endure sandy soil and the desert’s wild temperature swings.

I sat there a long time. Long enough for the sun to set behind me. The lights came on in the vast expanse of flatland below as the darkness flowed in. I snorted, disgusted at myself. This had been exactly the wrong place to stop, if I didn’t want to think about Diego.

We spent the afternoon up in the hills, shooting discarded beer cans with BB guns and spooking the small and silent creatures that made their homes among the rocks and hollows. We’d talked about this and that. Baseball. School. Getting out. A day like any other; conversation that was easy and untroubled. By the time we made it back to where he’d left the dirtbike the sun was setting, turning the sky a million shades of fire and pastel.

I was still the same scrawny kid I’d always been, feeling smaller now as one by one the boys I’d grown up with hit puberty with all the force and subtlety of a diesel locomotive. Diego was already tall, as our Freshman year came to a close. Almost six feet, and well-built. Lately, I had become aware — painfully aware! — of his dark, brooding good looks. Feelings I could barely understand, and fought with every ounce of my strength. Fought to deny. Or, failing that, to hide.

He towered over me as we stood, catching our breath, awed by the sunset but too embarrassed, in our adolescence, to admit it. Just before the sun vanished, he turned to say something and our eyes locked. I felt like the world had, for an instant, stopped spinning. That the sun would stay there forever, a golden sliver on the far horizon, giving us a moment out of time. A moment, maybe, to say the things that could not be said . . . .

My phone rang and I thought, Fuck you, Kelsey. But I sagged with relief when I saw that it was Lourdes. Through the sudden tightness in my throat, I managed to say, “Hey” as I accepted the call.

“Carmen! Can you talk? Is this a good time?” Her voice was warm and delightfully free of complications.

I couldn’t keep the longing from my voice. “Yes! Yes, please!”

“How is your Padre? And how are you?”

“He’s doing better than me, Querida, and he’s in a coma.”

“Tell me,” she urged. “What has happened, Carmencita?”

I gave her the run-down on my day. Lourdes, herself the child of a large Mexican family, had no trouble following the intricacies of my blood relations. But she was more worried about Dace. “You think he watches you?”

“No. I mean, he looks at me, sure. But it’s more like, I don’t know . . . like he’s laughing at me? Or maybe laughing at Kelsey. I just . . . .” I couldn’t find words to finish the sentence, finally repeating a defeated, “I don’t know.”

“He makes you nervous?”

I wanted to say “no,” but I remembered my encounter with him in the morning, after Kelsey had left for work. I shivered, whether from the memory or the rapidly-dropping temperature. “Yes.”

“Trust your gut, then. Stay away from him.”

I chuckled ruefully. “Maybe I shouldn’t trust myself. It’s not like I’ve got heaps of experience with guys, you know. I could be misreading him. Misjudging him.”

“You can’t count on that!”

“I guess not,” I agreed.

“How soon can you come home?”

“That’s . . . tricky. I need to get the insurance stuff squared away. He has to have insurance, I just haven’t found it yet. I’ll go back to the house tomorrow morning and finish my search. If I find it and it all checks out, I should be good to come home.”

“Even if your Padre is still in the hospital?”

“There’s nothing I can do about that problem. He could be there a long time. He could even be in a coma for a long time. So it’s not like I can talk to him or anything.”

She was silent for a long while, and I just stared out into the darkness. Finally, I asked, “What?”

“You don’t feel anything for him, do you?” Her question was soft, filled with compassion rather than accusation.

I thought about it, but what I had said to Dace at our aborted dinner still seemed right. “Not really. The guy in the bed . . . I just couldn’t connect him to my memories.”

More silence. But this time, she didn’t wait for my prompt. “Do you miss him?”

“I used to. But after a few years . . . I kind of had to stop caring, you know? Otherwise the wound just wouldn’t heal. Now it’s like old scar tissue. It doesn’t hurt anymore; it just feels dead.”

“I am so sorry. I hoped that you would get the chance to make peace, but maybe . . . maybe you should just get back here as quickly as you can. Back where people care about you.”

“Amen to that!”

We signed off and I went back to staring at the night sky. I put my shirt back on over my tank top and buttoned it up, annoyed that my warmer jacket was at Kelsey’s house. Kelsey and Dace’s house.

Kelsey and Dace . . . and Diego.

I fought my ghosts until the day finally caught up with me and I fell asleep.

~o~O~o~

Short on decent sleep, stiff, and acutely conscious of not having either showered or brushed my teeth in a day, I took one look at the stunning sunrise and flipped it the bird. This place, these people, all my memories — they were crushing me. And I hated, loathed, and absolutely despised feeling grimy and unwashed. I longed with my very soul to point my car south and never come back. What did I owe Padre?

But I wasn’t here because of Padre. I knew that.

She was bending over her sewing, straining to see in the dim light. Padre had dropped us off for the weekend, having something or other to attend to.

“Abuela? Can you teach me how to sew?”

Before she could answer, Joaquim scoffed, “that’s woman’s work, dork!”

She glared at him. “Silencio, fool! It’s work that keeps food on the table. Go clean the kitchen. If it’s not spotless, you can do without breakfast.”

Joaquim knew better than to argue; he was in the kitchen faster than a cockroach after lights out. For myself, I decided I wouldn’t say anything that might redirect Abuela’s wrath to me.

She continued her work for a minute or two in silence. Without looking up from her sewing, she said – in Spanish, of course; we were alone – “No. I’m not working three jobs so that you can become a laborer. Your job is to study.”

“I got all A’s on my report card!”

That caused her to look up, and her eyes were smoldering. “So?”

“I’m doing well!”

“But are you doing your best?”

I looked at her, bewildered.

“You sit here, doing nothing. Why aren’t you studying?”

“I’m all done with my homework. Honest!”

She reached out, grabbed my earlobe and twisted it, hard; I could feel the dry, cracked calluses on her thumb and forefinger. “That’s stupid. The teachers assign homework that the slowest child in your class can handle. You can do more. So do more!”

I couldn’t go home. Not yet. My hopes and dreams – a professional career, even life as a woman – were only possible because Abuela brought the family here, held it together, and pushed us. All of us, but certainly me. My peers ensured that school was a misery, and I might have given up if she hadn’t been there, demanding nothing but my very best.

Even though she had backed my father’s decision to disown me, I owed her.

With a sigh, I started up the car and headed downhill. It was way too early to do anything useful, but I knew only too well that there were places to eat by the highway that were open 24/7. I could kill time and hunger all at the same time.

When I got there it was still pretty early. Between the silent parking lot and my graveyard of memories, I felt nervous and unsettled. Just to be on the safe side, I unlocked the compartment where I keep my Ruger LCR and added it to my purse.

The food options were unsurprisingly uninspired; just seeing the burger on the menu made my stomach churn. But at this point I didn’t care. What passed for a breakfast sandwich was fine. The coffee was surprisingly good.

The hard metal of the rest stop chairs hit my back in exactly the spots that were sore from a night spent sleeping in a car seat, and the smell of the restaurant’s deep fat fryer was doing nothing for my stomach.

My phone pinged to alert me to an incoming text from Kelsey. “You still alive?”

I thought about ignoring her; just thinking about our last interaction made my blood boil. But all my stuff was still at her place, and I didn’t need Kelsey in a temper. I typed back, “Yes.”

Her response was quick. “since when you a drama queen?”

“Seriously?”

“Ya girl. Just sayin stay off my dinner. No biggie.”

I couldn’t even formulate a response to that, and decided there was no point in trying. With grim determination, I finished my breakfast, drank the last of my coffee, and left. I couldn’t bear the place any longer. The sight of the big rigs parked in a row, the drivers probably asleep in the backs of their cabs, didn't help. Without even realizing it, I found my hand resting on top of my purse, just inches from my handgun.

My phone rang. I ignored it.

Another text. “Answer the phone Carmen.”

I got in the car, and it rang again. Fine. “What?”

“Hey.” Kelsey’s voice was uncharacteristically soft. “You don’t have much experience with this shit, do you?”

Despite her conciliatory tone, I couldn’t keep the snarl from my voice. “I’ve processed so much shit I’m a frickin’ septic system!”

“Yeah, I guess. But maybe not, ‘insecure girlfriend’ shit?”

“Kels. It’s been a long night. And a long day before that, you know? What are you talking about?”

“Dace and me . . . we got issues, you know? So, when I see him looking around, my claws kinda come out.”

I couldn’t suppress a snort. “You’ve gotta have big problems, if you’re worried about me.”

She was silent for so long I wondered if she’d hung up. “Kels?”

“You don’t see it, do you?” She sounded incredulous. “You look good, girl. And me? Not so much, these days.”

What? “No way you believe that!”

“You say so. Anyhow . . . look. I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was gonna launch you into orbit.”

I was still trying to wrap my sleep-deprived brain around the idea that Kelsey could ever be jealous of me, but I managed to get out an “okay.”

“We good?”

“Yeah.” My voice was guarded. I understood where Kelsey was coming from – sort of – but I wasn’t sure what I could do about it. Other than get the hell out of dodge, which I was trying my very best to manage for a list of reasons too long to count.

“What’s your plan today?”

“Back to Joaquim’s. If I find something, I’ll bring it out to the hospital. If I can get that financial end of things all settled, I’ll let Abuela know, then head home.”

“Your stuff’s all here,” she reminded me.

“I know.”

“Tell you what. I’ll make you dinner tonight, okay? Peace offering. You can drive back after, if you’re all done. If not . . . you know you can stay with me.”

“Kels . . . I don’t want to walk into a war zone. If you and Dace have problems –”

“I’ll take care of Dace,” she said decisively. “And I’ll keep my claws in.”

Against my better instincts, I agreed. Things with Kelsey were weird, but I couldn’t imagine staying at Padre’s house, especially since I would so obviously cramp Ximo’s style. And I didn’t want to spend money on a motel.

But those were just rationalizations and I knew it. It didn’t matter if she had flipped out, or whatever. I owed Kelsey, just like I owed Abuela. If she really wanted me there, I would go.

Back to Padre’s house, where I was relieved to see no sign of Joaquim’s car. I couldn’t deal with him today. When I slipped ‘round to the back, I had no difficulty removing the screen to the right-most living room window, pressing my fingers to the glass and sliding it across. Just like old times.

Well . . . maybe not just like. Stepping up and into the room was a little awkward in my skirt. No points for ladylike poise — but there wasn’t anyone around to judge.

With a sigh, I went back to the disaster that had once been my sanctuary and got to work on yet another pile of crap that should have been shipped off to a recycling plant ages ago. Padre never cared about being organized or neat, but I didn’t remember him being a pack-rat. On the other hand, he’d never had an entire empty room where he could dump shit and just forget about it, either.

Three hours later, I was approaching the bottom of a particularly unpromising pile — unpromising because everything close to the tabletop seemed to be over ten years old — when I saw a plain Manila envelope with Padre’d thick, emphatic printing in a dark sharpie: “Important.” It wasn’t sealed, so I opened the flap and pulled out a single sheet, a fillable form clearly printed from some website, with the heading “Last Will and Testament” in some elaborate script.

He’d filled it out in ink, so the words were clearly his own. All possessions, including real and personal property, to “my son Joaquim Augustin Morales.” Fair enough, and I didn’t expect anything else. But the next words were more pointed: “For avoidance of doubt, no part of my estate shall go to my wife, Kathleen Parker or any child other than Joaquim Augustin Morales. It is my specific desire and intent to disinherit Kathleen Parker and her sons Carlos Angel and Domingo Javier, by whatever names either of them may use.”

It was all I could do to keep from crumpling the “document” in my fist. I understood that Mom walked out on him. On us. But why blame Domingo, for God’s sake? He’d been three!

And, of course, there was the none-so-subtle dig. Joaquim was “my son”; Domingo and I were “her sons.” Oh, a little bit of scandal, and it’s “hey, can’t blame me! I had NOTHING to do with those two.” Yeah, the stork must have swung by or something. Couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with his drunken carousing in Fresno!

You are not my son! That he was technically right didn’t make it hurt any less. No matter how long I lived or how far away I ran, his words would follow me. I would hear them in eternity.

“What the actual fuck am I doing here?” My voice was loud in the silence of the house, though I hadn’t intended to speak.

Padre’s grandiose “last will” had no purpose besides causing hurt. He didn’t have a proverbial pot to piss in – in fact, one of the pieces of paper I’d unearthed earlier indicated that he pulled substantial equity out of the house just four years ago. But there he was, loudly and proudly “disinheriting” his wife and children like he was the Baron of Buttonwillow. Nothing but spite and bile, something to make sure we knew how much he despised us all. Like I hadn’t gotten THAT memo already.

I put the “document” back in its folder and placed it on top of the pile. There was a chance, after all, that Joaquim might need to find it soon, and Juan Morales’ precious child – the one who rated the title “my son!” – was no more capable of finding it on his own than of circumnavigating the globe in a walnut shell.

I got up, stretched, and headed to the bathroom. Padre’s malice and the stench of his cigarettes were bringing my headache back with a vengeance. The face that looked back at me from the mirror was angry, unwashed, and full of screaming imperfections. Splashing cold water on it wasn’t going to help, but I didn’t have any better ideas. At least it was cool on my skin, and soothing.

I grabbed a light-brown towel from the bar on the shower door to dry my face and instantly regretted it. The towel looked clean, but like every porous surface it had absorbed the residue of smoke and I felt like I’d stuck my entire face in an ashtray. Dios Mio! Had I really been oblivious to how disgusting this was?

I turned to put the towel back when a hard knock on the front door made me jump out of my skin.

– To be continued

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.

 

After her father has a stroke, Carmen Morales is summoned back to the Kern County home she was kicked out of twelve years before, by the Grandmother – “Abuela” – who refused to intervene. She stays overnight with her cousin Kelsey and Kelsey’s boyfriend Dace. In the morning, she goes to the hospital, where she meets her Grandmother, her Aunt Maria, and her cousin Lupe. Abuela insists that she look after her father, because no-one in the family can deal with his insurance issues and Abuela herself is now blind. Carmen’s attempts to find out if her father has insurance are unsuccessful. She calls her uncle Augustin, who works with her father, but is unable to reach him, then visits her younger brother Joaquim and starts going through her father’s papers. She finds nothing, but has to stop her search before finishing it. At dinner, Kelsey accuses Carmen of going after Dace, and Carmen drives off into the foothills where she spends an uncomfortable night. In the morning, Kelsey apologizes, and Carmen continues searching through her father’s papers. While she does not find proof of insurance, she does find a copy of her father’s will, which includes a provision expressly disinheriting her.

Chapter 6: A Good Man and His Daughter

The knock on the door repeated and I hurried over, worried that it might be the police. If a neighbor had seen me slip in through the back window, I definitely didn’t want the police kicking down the door to apprehend a “burglar.”

But prudence made me throw the chain latch on before I opened the door, so it was through a four-inch gap that I found myself staring at my uncle Augustin and, to my even greater surprise, his daughter Inés. Both had changed far less than the other family members I’d bumped into. They’d both filled out a bit, which in my cousin’s case was a good thing.

Uncle Augustin looked good with salt-and-pepper hair, though his moustache was almost white. “Hello . . . niece.” He smiled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Does it make sense to say it’s nice to meet you?”

I was at a loss for words. “What . . . I mean, how did you know . . . ?”

“‘Cuz we’re like a bunch of crows on a power line,” Innie said sourly. “Squawking at each other all freaking day. One of us hears something, the rest know within, like minutes.”

“Here, give me a second,” I said. I closed the door to unlatch the chain, then opened it back up. “Umm . . . c’mon in, I guess. I mean, it’s not like I live here, but . . . .” My voice tapered off. I felt stupid acting like I owned the place. Especially since I just discovered my dear Padre’s “specific desire and intent” that I never would.

“I am sure Juan would let us in,” my uncle said gravely. I wasn’t certain he was kidding.

“Of course.”

They trooped in and I closed the door behind them.

“Keeping it a bit warm in here,” he said conversationally.

“Yeah, dark too,” I answered as I led them toward the kitchen. “I’m not sure what Padre’s financial situation is, or how he’s paying for stuff. I’m trying not to run up the electric bill.”

He grunted an acknowledgement. When we got to the kitchen, where the sunlight streamed through the big front-facing window, he stopped me. “Here. Let me get a look at you.” Putting heavily calloused hands on my bare shoulders, he gave my face a searching examination. For a nice change, he didn’t look lower. “Ah, child,” he said softly. “I am so sorry.”

I quirked a smile. “Do I look that bad?”

“You look like a street person,” Innie snarked. “They don’t believe in showers, down in LA?”

She meant to be funny, but her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I opened my mouth to say something rude, but my Uncle stopped me.

“You look worn,” my uncle told me. “And there’s more pain in those eyes than I’d wish on any relation.” Looking at Innie, he added, “Enough, daughter.”

“I’m . . . .” My throat was suddenly dry, and my voice a bit husky. Kindness? I hadn’t expected kindness! I tried again. “I’m fine. Really, Uncle Augi.”

He gave my shoulders a squeeze and released them, looking sad. “Well . . . it’s good to see you again. I didn’t think I’d ever get the chance.”

I cleared my throat and asked if I could get them anything. Before long we were out on the back patio – a grandiose name for a slab of concrete behind the garage, where Padre had some cheap outdoor furniture. I was eager to get out of the miasma of the indoors. Mercifully the patio was still in the shadow of the house, and we each had a tall glass of water. Padre can spring for that, at least!

“I assume Kelsey told you where to find me?” I asked once we were seated.

“Yeah.” Innie made a face. “I got a bit of your story out of her, too. Shit, she could have told me you were okay. That she’d stayed in touch. After you disappeared, we all assumed the worst.”

“Not her fault, really. I made her swear not to tell anyone.”

“But why?” Uncle Augustin asked. “You must have known we would worry.”

I shook my head, trying to come up with a response that didn’t sound like an accusation. “I just assumed all of you were ashamed of me. It took me almost a year before I could even bring myself to contact Kelsey.”

“Kelsey . . . but not me?” Innie challenged. “I frickin’ went to the mat for you!”

Uncle Augustin tried to intervene, but my fiery cousin waved him down. “No, Poppa! I need to say this! In school, after school, around town . . . I always defended you. God, remember when that asswipe and his friends were pounding on you? Who charged in to stop them?”

“Innie —“

“Say it! Say it, ‘Carmen!’”

“You did.”

“That’s right. Me. And I never once bitched at you for all the shit I got about it, either. Because I was your cousin. Because I was your friend. And that’s what friends do, isn’t it?” She slammed her plastic cup on the side table, and the water jumped and spilled on her hand, dripping slowly down to evaporate on the warm cement.

Uncle Augustin was shocked by her vehemence, and for a moment there was silence between us. But Innie’s glare was loud and eloquent.

I had to say something, but I knew she wasn’t going to like it. “Do you remember how you found out . . . you know. That I’d been kicked out? And why?”

She nodded. “Yeah. You weren’t at graduation and I didn’t see you around. So I asked Kels if she’d seen you. She, like, pulled me into her room and started cryin’ and goin’ on about how you always thought you were a girl, and Uncle Fernando found out and called your dad. And how he’d kicked you out of the house and you’d disappeared. She was completely freaked.”

I nodded. “Do you remember what your reaction was, when she told you?”

“I . . . .” She snapped her mouth closed, suddenly realizing what she’d been about to say. “Shit. Fine. I was pissed, okay? I get mad, you know that. It doesn’t mean . . . .” She stopped again, then said, “Oh, fuck. She told you everything, didn’t she? Everything I said?”

“I don’t know about everything. She told me enough.”

“God damn that bitch!”

“Inés!” Easygoing as Uncle Augustin usually was, she had pushed him too far. “For once, stick your anger in a bottle! You blow up at people and act wounded when there are consequences.” Pointedly turning back to me, he said, “I would like to know what happened to you, Carmen. How you ended up down south. How you . . . how you survived. You didn’t know anyone. No family.”

I opened my mouth to say something bland, to turn aside the inquiry. However well-intentioned, there were doors I didn’t want to . . . .

The man had gotten a call while he was eating, sitting at the picnic table at the edge of the pool of lights surrounding the rest stop. He stayed there for a bit, talking, then pulled his beefy legs out from under the table and wandered back toward his truck, talking the whole while. From the deep shadows I watched him open the tall door and heave himself into the cab, still jabbering away.

I don’t know how much time passed. Was it five minutes? Ten? Surely he’d decided he wasn’t going to eat the rest of the burger. I waited another minute. Maybe it was two? Then I slid forward through the shadows, moving closer to my target.

I could afford a burger. I just couldn’t afford very many. I’d had a couple bucks in my wallet when Padre kicked me out, and the one time Kels had spotted me at school she’d put a twenty in my palm and closed my fingers over it. “Hang on,” she’d said. “It’ll blow over. You know it will.”

But it hadn’t, and it wouldn’t. School was now officially over, and I was down to that $20 bill. Come daylight, I’d have to decide where to go. Bakersfield was the obvious choice, but it might be too close. It WAS too close. I didn’t want to see any of these people again. So, north, toward the Bay Area? Lots of queer people in San Francisco, if the news was anything to go by.

I snatched the remains of the burger and slipped back towards the shadows.

He moved fast for his bulk, and just my luck he’d been carrying a flashlight on his belt. “What the fuck’r you doing, kid?”

I tried to run, but exhaustion, hunger and worry did a number on my reflexes. I tripped on the curb and went sprawling, and he planted a heavy knee on my back. “You owe me a burger, ya little shit!”

“Sorry! Sorry! I didn’t know it was yours,” I lied. Or, sort of lied. I mean, I DID think he’d abandoned it. Hadn’t I waited, like, forever?

“Don’t care none. Five ninety-nine, right now, or I’ll take it outta yer scrawny, thievin’ hide.”

“Yessir!” I choked, desperate to have him off my back. “I’ve got it.”

“Where?”

I gasped out, “Wallet.”

“Don’t see no wallet, girl.”

I was too frightened at the time to pick up on the fact that this complete stranger thought I was female. I just managed to maneuver a hand into my front pocket and extract the fabric wallet I kept there. “In the zipper pocket.”

His weight shifted as he retrieved it, and through the pounding of my overworked heart I heard him unzip it. “Looky here — a twenty. Shoulda bought your own, dumbass.”

Face in the dirt, I couldn’t even nod.

“I ain’t a change machine,” he warned.

“That’s okay,” I said. The desperation of my situation hit me with full force. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. Conversely, I wanted to walk away with pride, telling him to keep the change and choke on it. But all of those options were luxuries and I was now, officially, broke. “Maybe I could catch a ride?”

“Carmen?” Uncle Augustin’s soft voice called me back from the brink.

Innie was more direct. “You still with us, Chica?”

I shook my head, feeling dazed. “I’m sorry. I just . . . I can’t go there. Not now. Maybe not ever. It started bad, it got worse. I was on the street, okay? You don’t come back from that. You just don’t. Not without help. But I finally got some, and . . . I scratched and clawed my way back.” I sounded hysterical, even to my own ears, and I couldn’t stop myself from babbling. “And now, see, now things are good. I’ve got a good job.” Looking down at the breasts I thanked God for every day, I said, “Health care, you know? Like I always needed. A place to live. It’s tight, but my roommates are the best. I got a bachelor’s degree and I’m going to law school. Law school!” Hot tears burned my eyes, but I refused to release them. “I was finally getting it all together! Finally! And then . . . And now . . . .”

“And now, we’ve pulled you back.” Uncle Augustin’s eyes were filled with understanding, and it killed me. I had no defense to kindness.

My shoulders slumped. “Yeah.”

“College? Law school? Jeez, Kels didn’t say anything about that . . . .” Shadows seemed to gather around Innie’s so-very-readable face. “What are you even doing, slumming around this dump?”

Uncle Augustin rose suddenly, pulled a heavy key ring from his pocket, and tossed it to his surprised daughter. “Go somewhere and get us all some food.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Go. I need to talk to your cousin . . . and you’re just making it harder.”

I tried to intervene. “Uncle Augi, it’s okay. I get it.”

“Just chill, Poppa. Jeez!”

“It’s not okay,” he responded, unwilling to be deterred. “Inés . . . just, take some time. Please.”

She snatched up the keys and rocketed to her feet. “Fine. Will Mickey D’s do? It’s not much, but their arches are gold.”

“It’s fine,” he said, refusing to take the bait.

As she pulled the slider open, I managed to get up and put a hand on her arm. “Innie?”

She paused, but didn't look back. “What?”

“I’m sorry. I should have trusted you.”

“Fuckin’ A, you should have.” Her voice was low and intense, her volcanic temper barely leashed.

I let her go. The slider closed with a whack.

That could have gone better.

I felt my uncle’s arm around my shoulder, and to my surprise found myself leaning into it. “I missed you, child.”

“You did?” I managed to keep sniffles from my voice, but I couldn’t keep the tired from leaching out.

“Of course I did.” He sounded wistful. “Emilina grew up so fast, and before I knew it, she’d gone away with her pilot. But I had Innie, and you, and that crazy Kelsey, like the three musketeers. All born within a few months of each other. Well, Lupe, too, but she wasn’t part of your crew. I thought you three would be friends forever.”

“I guess I did, too. But I screwed that up good, didn’t I?”

“Innie’s not close to Kelsey anymore, either. And she’s angry all the time, so it’s not you.” He gave my shoulder a pat and released me. “Come on. Let’s sit.”

So we sat back down and I cradled my water in both hands, trying to think of what to say. Uncle Augi seemed willing to let me lead the conversation. Best get back to work, then. “What can you tell me about Padre?”

“Probably no more than you know. He collapsed. I was working in another section altogether; by the time someone found me, they’d already taken him off in an ambulance.” He shrugged, uncomfortably. “I’m sorry.”

I took a sip of my water while I thought of something safe to say. “He’s awfully young to just collapse.”

He looked at his hands, like they might have answers. Finally, he said, “I’ve been expecting it.”

“What?”

“When I look around this place, I see too many people just like your padre.” He looked up, his eyes troubled. “Beaten down. Disappointed. Before you know it, they’re gone in drink, or drugs. It’s the worst for the smart ones. The talented ones. If they stay here, they rot. Life passes them by, and they look back with nothing but regret.”

“You’re worried about Innie,” I said, immediately understanding the undercurrent of his words.

“Mostly,” he agreed, nodding sadly. “But she’s not alone. It’s true of a lot of your cousins. The town’s shrinking. Young people are going off to where the jobs are – wherever that is – and it seems like there’s always less and less here, for the ones who stay.”

“That’s why you think she’s angry all the time?”

“Who knows? Probably. Half the men around are cousins, and she knows the other half too well to like them much. Plus, she’s over at Terex Farms, doing shipping. We’d have called her a secretary, back when. If they start getting serious about water usage, pistachio farming’s done. She’s smart enough to know it.”

“But she won’t leave.”

“It’s hard, Carmen. To leave everything you know. All of your family, when family’s all you’ve ever known.” He stopped, a look of pain crossing his face. “I’m sorry – you don’t need anyone to tell you that.”

I shrugged, acknowledging the point.

Cocking his head slightly and giving me a speculative look, he asked, “Would you have gone, if your padre hadn’t kicked you out?”

“I wanted to. And we used to talk about it. All of us did. Usually when the elders weren’t around! But . . . if I’m honest about it, I hadn’t made any plans. Done any research. I guess I thought I’d figure it all out after I graduated from high school.”

He nodded, as if I’d confirmed something he’d suspected. “Yeah, that’s how it starts. Then one day you wake up, and you’re in your thirties. Maybe you're married. Maybe you have kids. And then it’s not so easy, getting out.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

“No.” He smiled, lighting up his whole face. “I’m not smart, like Juan, or talented, like Fernando. Dios, Fernando could sell locusts to a farmer! I love this place, and I love working the land. Marrying, settling down, having a family of my own . . . it’s all I’ve ever wanted.” He chuckled at a memory. “As you might imagine, I was a huge disappointment to your Abuela.”

“Somehow, I think we’re all in that boat,” I said, remembering the previous day’s interaction with my irascible grandmother.

“One way or another,” he agreed. “She will go to her grave thinking we all should have been doctors, or nuclear physicists, or something.” The smile left his face. “I talked to her about you, after . . . well, you know. After you left.”

I actually didn’t know how much of the story had spread, or how far. I didn’t say anything, but my eyes asked the question.

“I got it out of Innie, as you probably guessed. Of course I missed you at graduation, and Juan hadn’t been there, either. I asked him about it when I saw him at work, and the little pendejo – sorry, but he was! – just turned his back on me and walked away.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve called him worse, in my own mind.”

“Yeah, well. Me, too, but Consola has taught me to keep my ruder comments to myself. She’s having a harder time with our daughter!”

“I’ve noticed. Anyhow . . . what did Innie tell you?”

“All I could get out of her was that you’d gotten into some kind of trouble with Kelsey, and Juan had disowned you. She wouldn’t tell me what the trouble was, and when I called Fernando he said it was Juan’s business, not his – or mine. So, I talked to Mamá. She said you’d been to see her, to ask her to help with Juan.”

She opened the door, fixing me with her usual bird-of-prey stare. “No deberías estar estudiando?”

“Abuela . . . necesito tu ayuda!”

In the fading light of the late June evening, she took in my tear-filled face, my disheveled hair. Probably, being Abuela, she even noticed that my hurried efforts to remove all touches of makeup had been less than perfect. Her expression didn’t change. “Bien. Podrías entrar.” Almost grudgingly, she stood aside, allowing me to pass her.

Uncle Augi was still talking, shaking his head in disbelief. “How you thought you could get her on your side, without telling the whole story . . . .”

“Yeah, well . . . I was kind of desperate.”

“I guess so. Anyhow, she said she got you to admit that Uncle Fernando had caught you wearing Kelsey’s clothes, and that you’d told her you thought you were a girl. She didn’t have anything to say about that.”

“Really? She didn’t have anything to say to me about it either, but I thought she was just too surprised by it to have a come-back ready.”

“Your Abuela is harder to surprise than you might think,” Uncle Augustin replied. “But she told me she decided not to interfere with whatever Juan decided to do.”

I willed him to say more, but he was just looking down, apparently lost in his own memories. So I asked the question that had burned in me, ever since that night. “Did she say why? Was it just because Padre was her favorite? The smart one who could do no wrong?”

That caused him to look up, surprised. “You know your Abuela better than that,” he chided. “When you’re smart, like you and your padre, she just expects more. And if you think she was satisfied with Juan’s decisions in life . . . .” He didn’t complete the sentence, but he didn’t have to, either.

“Yeah, I guess I knew that,” I admitted. “I suppose I just liked that explanation better than thinking she agreed with Padre.” I tried to keep my voice steady, but it was hard. “That she was as disgusted as he was.”

He leaned forward, as if to emphasize his words. “I don’t really know what goes on inside her head, Carmen. She thinks circles around me and always has. All she told me was, ‘Carlos will have to make his own way.’ But . . . .” He paused, as if trying to come up with the right words.

When the silence stretched, I prodded. I need to know! “But?”

He raised his hands, palms up, as if acknowledging both my need and his own uncertainty. “I think she knew there was nothing for you here. Not as a man, but even less as a woman, if that’s how you decided to live.” When I didn’t meet his eyes or say anything, he asked, softly, “Was she wrong?”

I looked down at my rumpled skirt and considered his question. I thought of the family, and the reactions I’d had since I’d made my reappearance. As the minutes ticked silently by, I thought of the cotton fields and the fast food and the handful of bars, the boredom and the dust. I thought of the life I’d managed to build in Orange County once I got out of LA. Of my boss, my classmates, my roommates . . . people who accepted me as I was. Who rejoiced in my successes, rather than seeing them only through the lens of their own disappointments. I’d paid one hell of a price, but . . . .

“No.”

He sighed. “I didn’t think so. Maybe I should have found a way to push Innie out, too. Nothing quite so harsh, or final. But something.”

I looked up again to see the lines of regret written on a face too honest for secrets. “Why didn’t you?”

“It was so hard, letting Emelina go. We almost never get to see our grandchildren. And, well, Consola . . . .” He stopped, unable to go on.

But I knew my aunt, and could fill in the rest. I’m sure she had been adamant that her remaining daughter stay home. “I understand.”

He nodded, then decided it was past time to change the subject. Suddenly brisk, he said, “Anyhow . . . Innie told me you called yesterday, and I’m sure you weren’t looking to hear an old man’s worries. What can I do, that will allow you to get back to that life you’ve made?”

“Please, Uncle Augi! You’re not old, and I do care!”

I would have gone on, but he stopped me from saying comforting things I might not mean. “Better if you don’t. I’m glad I got to see you, but I’m sorry Mamá dragged you back here. You need to let us go. All of us, understand?”

“If the rest of the family was like you, I wouldn’t have needed to leave!”

He nodded. “Maybe. But think what a tragedy that would have been. So again: what can I do?”

I took a deep breath. “Okay. Well, here’s the thing. Abuela needs me to sort out Padre’s insurance situation. He didn’t have a card in his wallet, and no-one seems to know what coverage he’s got. I tried calling Kern Cotton, but the office is closed for the weekend. So now I’ve been going through Padre’s papers, trying to find something. I thought you might actually know?”

“I’ve still got Kaiser; I assume Juan does, too.” He thought for a minute. “A few years ago, though, I remember the company offered everyone an incentive payment. Give up Kaiser, and go on the exchange. You know, Obamacare, or whatever we call it in California. Anyway, everyone thought it was a joke.”

I shook my head. “They paid people more money to give up their healthcare? That doesn’t sound right.”

“Didn’t sound right to us, either. I don’t know anyone who took the deal. But you were supposed to give the company something about the health plan you bought with the extra money, so I guess maybe it was legit. We just didn’t trust it.”

I smiled internally. Few people on God’s green earth are less inclined to trust The Powers That Be than farmers. “Did you talk to Padre about it?”

“We don’t talk all that much. He’s . . . .” He paused, gathering his thoughts, then shook his head sadly. “He’s not the man he was. It’s like every year, he just gets angrier. More bitter. We used to be pretty close. Not like him and Fernando; they were always up to one thing or another. But, God, he wanted out, even as a teenager. And then . . . .” he stopped, as if suddenly aware of what he was about to say.

I finished it for him. “And then I came along.”

“Please! I am not suggesting it was your fault! He was twenty – plenty old enough to know better. And Fernando would have been twenty-five; he could have looked out for your padre when he lured him up to Fresno with a promise of good work for the summer. But all his ambition, all his book smarts . . . none of it prepared Juan for your momma.”

“I don’t remember her very well.” My voice was tight, and I didn’t express the thought that immediately followed my words: Except when I do.

“She was beautiful, your Momma,” he sighed. “And about as out of place in Buttonwillow as . . . I don’t know. An opera singer, or a Grand Duchess, or something. Delicate features, pale skin, platinum blonde hair. Eyes like ice. She wanted to be a fashion designer, of all things. She could speak French! Did you know that?”

“Not much call for that, here.”

“No. And of course, by the time she came, she was ready to pop you out, and your Padre was desperate. He dropped out of college and grabbed the first job he could get. Had to live with Mamá for a while; she wouldn’t co-sign a mortgage until they were married.”

I didn’t remember much about the arguments. Not the words, anyway. It had been the backdrop of my childhood, no more remarkable than the heavy cough of tractors or the smell of araricides. After a while, you learn when you need to pay attention, and ignore the rest. Still, I’d had a lot of years to think it over, and a lot of weepy, sleepless nights while I did. “They hated it. Both of them.”

“And, eventually, each other,” he agreed sadly.

She knelt down, bringing her face to my eye level, her spun gold hair held back in a severe headscarf. “You be good today, Carlos, you hear?”

I couldn’t understand why she was making a big deal of what was, for me, just another school day. “Yes, Momma.”

“And make sure Joaquim gets on the bus.”

I rolled my eyes. “I know, Momma!”

“I need you to look after him . . . after school.”

Her eyes and voice were so intense, it scared me. “What’s wrong, Momma?”

She rose. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. Just be good to your brother, okay? Take care of him.”

Joaquim came dashing out from the bathroom, pulling up his shorts. “Ready, Mummy!” He loved kindergarten.

Joaquim got a hug and a kiss, then she shoo’d us out. “Alright, you two – there’s the bus. Don’t be late.”

I felt her eyes follow us as we rushed down the sidewalk, and that sixth sense left me worried, like I’d missed something important. I hadn’t, not really.

But I would.

“She didn’t even say goodbye.” I hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but somehow the whisper escaped, the sour truth as hard to suppress as a beery belch after a bender.

“She didn’t tell anyone.” Uncle Augustin’s voice was gentle. “I think she was afraid we would stop her.”

“We?”

He shrugged. “We, yes. The family. Your father, my brothers. Me. Your Abuela, most of all. We would have tried, too. I know, because we did it before.”

“What? I never heard that!”

“You were little. One, maybe two. She left town, abandoned you and your Padre. Someone must have given her a ride, since Juan had the only car.” Again he looked down at his hands. “She’d gone back up to the Bay Area, so Fernando didn’t have any trouble tracking her down. He and I went north to bring her back.”

“You abducted her?!” Gentle Uncle Augustin?

“Nothing so dramatic. We just laid out the consequences of abandoning you. Fernando persuaded her that things would be better. That Juan would be better.”

“And he could ‘sell locusts to farmers.’” I got the picture. “I don’t suppose Padre actually promised to be better?”

“Oh, I’m sure he did. I’m even sure he meant it. But good intentions couldn’t make a bad situation better. They got back together, and they finally had a wedding, and they even managed to give you a pair of brothers. But they still had no business being together, or being here.”

“And you still would have tried to stop her from leaving?”

“Yes. I know I would have; I expect the rest would have, too. For your sake, and your brothers’. Even for Juan’s, though we could all see how they were grinding each other down.” He shrugged apologetically. “Today, I think it would have been a mistake. Maybe I’m wiser now, but who knows? There weren’t any good answers.”

Just at that moment, the slider opened and Innie looked at each of us, a bag and a drink caddie precariously held together in her left hand. “Jesus! I got Big Macs, but you two look like you need fucking happy meals!”

— To be continued

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.

 

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

Chapter 7: Scar Tissue

“Well, fuck!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, okay. Sure, I’ll let her know.”

“Thanks, Gaby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ouch. Call me tomorrow afternoon, okay?”

“Will. Thanks.”

“Good luck.”

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

Well, screw that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His reply was gruff. “You should study.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Padre!”

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

“Yes Padre!”

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

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

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

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

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

Different times.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~o~O~o~

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What can I do to help?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes, it made ME vicious.

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

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

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

Later, though . . . .

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

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

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

“I know.”

“That happen often?”

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

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

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

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

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

“For what?”

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

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

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

“Did what?”

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

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

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

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

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

I. Will. NOT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?”

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

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

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

“Kels . . . it’s okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Bullshit!”

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

Wait, what??? “Shut up!”

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

“Well, durrr!”

“And even Turbo was better than Tomás Reyes.”

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

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

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

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

“No, you aren’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— To be continued

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.

 

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. Over the course of the weekend, as Carmen attempts without success to determine whether her father — Padre — has insurance, she reconnects with several members of her extended family, including her Uncle Augustin and his daughter Inés (“Innie”). Carmen stays with Kelsey, the only family member who had known she was trans, but the situation is complicated by Kelsey’s boyfriend Dace. Dace treats Kelsey poorly; he also reminds Carmen of his younger brother Diego, Carmen’s first crush.

At the end of Chapter 7, Kelsey has tried to make a nice Sunday night dinner for Carmen and Dace, but Dace stands them up. She suggests inviting Innie to join them instead. Carmen’s interactions her over the weekend have been tense.

Chapter 8: In Tequila, Truth

I gave Kelsey a dubious look. “Really? She was prickly as fuck when I saw her at lunch. Didn’t seem real happy with you, either.”

She waved it off. “C’mon. That’s just Innie. She’s always got an auger up her ass about something.”

“Her poppa said you guys hadn’t been close for a long while.”

“Yeah, well.” She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a couple Buds, handing me one without asking. “She sort of blamed me for making you trans. They all did, for a while.”

“Blamed you.” My family is SO fucked up!

She popped her beer and took a sip. “Don’t worry about it. I stuck around and they got over it. But I was pretty pissed at Innie, too, so. It’s not like we don’t see each other at family things. We just don’t hang anymore, ya know?”

“Yeah.” I pushed away a memory of the three of us, running around in swim suits and t-shirts, heaving water balloons at each other and screaming loud enough to scare the crows. That was then.

I’d never focused on how my getting outed might have affected other relationships in the family. Obviously, nothing good had come of it.

Kelsey sensed the turn of my thoughts. “I said don’t worry about it. Yeah, it was bad for a few months. But we’re still family and we got through it.”

“Except you and Innie.”

She quirked a half grin. “I don’t think your Padre or our senior Aunts ever forgave me either, but no loss there. We tolerate each other.”

I took a long drink myself, and thought it over. My conversation with Kelsey all by herself shredded my emotions; I had serious doubts about my ability to handle Innie, too. But their friendship foundered because of me, and I was feeling pretty guilty about that. Maybe I could help repair some of the damage — but only if I could get myself firmly under control. My track record on this trip wasn’t great.

Still . . . Gotta try. “Okay,” I said. “Why don’t you get the chicken cooking, and I’ll go out back and call her.”

“I can call her,” she said, sounding a little offended.

“Kels. Her first response isn’t going to be sunshine and spring flowers. I don’t want you two blowing up at each other, you know? Let me see what I can do.”

She rolled her eyes, but agreed.

Just like Padre’s house, Kelsey’s place had a concrete slab patio, though hers lacked furniture. The evening sun was still plenty hot, and there was no escaping it.

I punched Innie’s number, having gotten it out of her, however grudgingly, at the end of our lunch.

“Yeah?”

Just a fun little ball of cactus, aren’t we? “Hey, Innie. I’m calling with an invitation.”

“Why?”

“Couple reasons. One, because your Poppa wouldn’t let you chew my ass out earlier.”

She snorted.

“And, two, because Kelsey’s boyfriend is a pendejo.”

Another snort. “Of course Kelsey’s boyfriend is a pendejo. She only dates pendejos.”

“Yeah, well. I’m just getting caught up, you know?”

“Uh huh. What’s her shitty love life got to do with me?”

“She made a nice meal for three, and he stood her up. And she thought, hey. Maybe the three of us could get together instead.”

“Oh, a ‘girl’s night?’” Her voice dripped scorn.

For Kelsey’s sake I suppressed my strong desire to bite Innie’s pugnacious head off and stick it up her tight, angry ass. “How about an ‘old friends’ night? Former friends, at least? Who might, maybe, think about being friends again?”

The phone was silent for a long time, but I knew she hadn’t hung up. Finally, she said, “I’d rather wash my frickin’ hair. You get that, right?” But she sounded resigned rather than annoyed.

“Yeah. I know.”

“I’m pissed at both of you.”

“Yup. Understood.”

“I bet the bitch wants me to bring the hot sauce.”

“Tequila,” I confirmed with a sigh.

“I’ve gotta work tomorrow,” she warned.

I laughed. “For all our sakes, make it a small bottle.”

“Yeah, that’ll go over well.”

“Innie,” I said, switching to serious. “Bring whatever. Bring nothing but your attitude; I don’t care. Just come, okay?”

“Oh, fine. You at the pendejo’s house?”

“Yeah. You know which one, right?”

“Which house, or which pendejo?” Before I could answer, she said, “Yeah, I know.”

“See you soon, then.”

“You owe me for this.”

“I do,” I confirmed, ending the call and shaking my head at my own masochism. Yeah, you’re doing me a favor by coming over to shit all over me.

She arrived with 750 milliliters of Jose Cuervo and an enormous chip on her shoulder, which was about what I was expecting. Marching in — no knocking — she scowled and said, “Not a word. Not one.” She glared at Kelsey, put the bottle on the kitchen counter, and said, “Three shots. Right now.”

Without a word, Kels opened a cabinet and pulled out three two-ounce glasses decorated with logos from what looked like local cantinas. She set each glass on the counter with a crack, then returned Innie’s glare, measure for measure.

Why did I think this was a good idea?

Innie filled all three glasses to within a hair of the top, set down the bottle and picked up a glass. “Okay. Here’s the deal. No pinche bullshit tonight. We’re gonna be honest with each other and say what we think, even if it means we don’t talk to each other again for another twelve years. Clear?”

Kels grabbed a glass and lifted it, her eyes locked with Innie’s. “Truth.”

“Truth,” Innie confirmed.

All for fun, and fun for all? Yeah, no. I had no intention of sharing anything that made me uncomfortable, or that I thought they couldn’t handle. But I wasn’t going to ruin Innie’s drama, so I raised the last glass and spoke my first lie. “Truth.”

We threw back the fiery liquid and I spoke my first truth. “Dios mio, that piss is harsh!”

“City chica,” Kelsey said, disgusted.

Innie grinned. “Yeah. It’s fucking perfect!”

I did manage to convince Innie that her orgie of honesty could wait a few minutes, until we had at least gotten some of Kels’ cooking into us. I hated to see her dinner go unappreciated, and besides, something solid might slow the effects of the tequila.

She let us get half-way through before she launched. “So, how long were you playing dress-up with Kelsey before you got caught?”

Kels got her line off before I could. “Fuck you, bitch.”

I raised a placating hand to forestall Innie’s response. “Not what I’d call it, but . . . a couple years.”

“And you told Kels that you wanted to be a girl?”

“No.” This time I returned her glare with interest. “I told her I was one.”

“Fine. Sure.” She cut a slice of chicken and popped it in her mouth. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t tell anyone if I could help it. She found out.”

Innie raised an eyebrow, and I decided to elaborate before Kels could give an extended — and still more embarrassing — version of the story. “She caught me with my pants down, literally, ’cuz I didn’t know the lock on the bathroom door didn’t work. The lacey pink panties were kinda hard to explain.”

“I bet.” She looked at Kelsey. “And you bought the whole, ‘I’m a girl’ thing?”

Kelsey leaned back in her seat and narrowed her eyes. “You say shit like that, and you wonder why she never told you?”

Innie flushed, but stood her ground. “Don’t tell me you didn’t take some convincing, when you caught her in frillies.”

“Yeah. So what?”

“Well, she never tried to convince me.”

“I couldn’t risk it,” I said, hoping to get Kels out of the line of fire.

“You trust her more than me? Why? Because of my madre?”

“No,” I lied. But instead of challenging her directly, I said, “Innie, how many fights have we had?”

“You think I kept count?”

“Yeah, no. You fight to win, though, right?”

“Well, duh!”

“Right. You bring the knife and go for the throat, every fight I’ve ever had with you, every fight I’ve seen you have with anyone else.”

She saw what I was getting at, and shook her head. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I would have frickin’ outed you!”

“I thought you said no BS?” Kelsey mocked.

I agreed with Kels, but saying so wouldn’t help. “Like I said, I couldn’t risk it. I knew what would happen, if it got out.”

She looked from one of us to the other, glowering. “Somehow, I just knew it was all gonna turn out to be my fault.” She threw back the rest of her second shot and set the glass down hard, But before I could say anything, she clenched her teeth and ground out, “Shit. Me and my fucking temper.”

Kels opened her mouth to pile on, but I managed to call her off with an almost imperceptible head shake. “Your temper saved my ass, more than once,” I said gently.

That earned the briefest hint of a smile, maybe for my kindness, more likely from shared memories. But then she turned her glare on Kelsey. “So, fine, I blow up, and I say shit I don’t mean. Do you have to repeat it? Jesus, if I’d known you were gonna blab everything to Carlos . . . .” She stopped and shook her head angrily. “Fine. ‘Carmen’. I’m not trying to be a culera, it just takes getting used to. Which you’ve had years to do, and I’ve had, like, a day. Anyhow, I wouldn’t have said anything!”

“Like you could help yourself,” Kelsey said, exasperated. “You say lots of things, you dumbass! You just fart them out. How’m I supposed to know which ones you mean?”

“By using your frickin’ brains!”

Kelsey refused to give an inch in the face of Innie’s outrage. “I told Carmen what you said, and I told her you were pissed. I figured she could make up her own mind.”

They glared at each other like a pair of gladiators in some swords-and-sandals movie. But that, oddly enough, felt just like old times. My memories superimposed numerous images of the two of them – as kids, as girls, as young women – in each other’s faces, spitting mad, glaring, shouting . . . .

I had a sudden, perverse feeling that things would be alright.

I helped myself to a bit more chicken. Some black beans. A little more brown rice. A sip of the tequila. The roasted corn had caramelized, giving it a sweet and smoky flavor. The food was all excellent — it even made the bargain-basement tequila palatable — and I was impressed. Kels can really cook. Whoda thunk?

“What’r you grinning at, you monkey?” Innie scowled at me.

“You two. Swear to God, you both have more testosterone than I ever had.”

Innie snorted, and Kels said, “well, no shit!”

It seemed to break the tension. “Look, Innie,” I said, seizing the moment. “Don’t blame Kels. She told me what she knew, that’s all. She couldn’t have known . . . .” I stopped abruptly. Whoops.

“How you would react to my saying the whole trans thing was horseshit?" Innie sounded skeptical. “I kinda think she could have guessed!”

I shook my head, fighting against memories that were grabbing at me, trying to pull me down again. “She couldn’t have known I was just about crazy at the time.” With all of my will, I forced my voice to sound normal, even though the things I was describing were anything but. “Paranoid, I guess.”

From the look on her face, she wasn’t understanding what I was trying to tell her, which wasn’t surprising. If you’ve never been there, “paranoid” is just a label, a word we throw around so often it’s almost meaningless. The reality, though . . . if you have been there, the meaning is real, it’s specific, and it’s terrifying. Like being a helpless passenger on an airplane that is tumbling out of a clear blue sky, turning end over end, the ground rushing up to meet you . . . .

With an effort, I shook the feelings aside. I needed Innie to understand, and she wasn’t the type to appreciate metaphors. Truth, ugly and unvarnished, would have to do, even though this was exactly the kind of truth-telling I’d hoped to avoid. Fucking tequila! “I got it in my head that people from home would hunt me down if they knew where to find me. They’d come, and they’d take their revenge for what I’d done. What I am.”

I shivered, remembering the images that still haunted my darkest dreams. Looming shadows in dead-end alleyways, cold, merciless eyes, machetes honed to razor sharpness, gleaming in the moonlight. “I begged Kels not to tell anyone that I’d called.”

Innie was staring at something, hard, causing me to look down.

With an effort, I relaxed the fist that had balled into a Filipino grip around the handle of my butter knife, and carefully set it back on the table.

No-one spoke. Or ate. Yeah, awkward.

Finally, Innie shook her head. “That’s some messed up shit.”

“I know, right?” I managed to steady myself with a breath, just like Dr. Shelley always recommended. Better.

That earned me a long, measuring look. Her glass went to her lips before she saw it was empty and set it back down. For once, her motions were careful. Almost thoughtful. “Okay, I guess I get it. I mean, not really, ’cuz it’s off the charts nuts, but whatever. What about later? You’ve been talking to her for years, right?”

Kels weighed in. “We’ve had, maybe, eight calls? Ten, tops. It’s not like we’re frickin’ Facebook friends.”

“Still.”

I shrugged. “What can I tell you? I got better, sure. But it’s like this big, black hole inside me, trying to pull me back again. Pull me down. I’ve spent ten years just trying to forget the past, and have the past forget me.” I gave Kelsey an apologetic look. “I’d have to work myself up to talk to you. Talk myself into it. I’d get nightmares. . . .”

Enough! I pulled back from my memories and concentrated on what I was trying to accomplish. Focus, Carmen! Turning my attention back to Innie, I said, “That’s why it’s not Kelsey’s fault. You’ve both got reasons to be pissed off at me, and I’ll own that. But honest, there’s no reason for you to be pissed at each other.”

Innie shook her head, uncertain, but then she looked at Kels and curled her lips into a lopsided smile. “Reeeeesons!?” Her outrageous accent was from something Uncle Augi used to quote. “I don’t need no stinking reasons!”

I was beyond grateful at her attempt to lighten the tone. We all laughed, and I managed to keep mine from tipping into hysteria. My moment of darkness passed again. Until next time.

Innie poured more tequila. “Alright, fine. I’d say I’m sorry, but . . . I didn’t even know you were alive for twelve years, and you show up with your shiny degree and a big city job. Just pissed me off, you know? And, I’ll admit I was ticked that you never told me about the trans thing, even when I was out there on the playground screaming at guys who were mocking you for being . . . ah. Well, you know.”

“I do. Very clearly. Though, they were mostly afraid I was gay.”

“You’re not?” Innie looked confused. “You still like girls?”

For some reason – maybe it was the just-released stress, or maybe the tequila – that hit me right in the funny bone and I cracked up. “No, you jackass. That would be gay, ’cuz – just in case you missed the memo – I’m a girl!”

“Oh . . . uh. Right. But then . . . .”

“Keep up, woman!” Kelsey grinned, knocking back a shot.

“I’m freakin’ tryin’!” Innie kindly poured her another. “All those guys – they were giving you shit because they thought you were, like, into them. Gay, like you said. But you actually were, weren’t you? Not gay, but . . . you were into them?”

I stopped laughing – so much for levity! – and sighed. “Not generally, no. But yeah. I had a serious crush on one of the guys. I guess I wasn’t as good at hiding it as I thought.”

“Wait . . . not the one who was throwin’ you around that time on the football field at school? With all his asshat friends?”

I heard her before I could see her, screaming as she charged. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” I could see all their faces, taunting, jeering as I whirled past. Toma, Luis, Santi, Dan . . . .

“Yeah.”

“But that was . . . .” Her mouth shut with a snap, and her eyes slid to Kelsey.

The only one who mattered was the one at the center, his hands twisted in my t-shirt, his beloved face fixed in a sneer . . . .

“Diego.” I lifted my shot glass and rammed it home. Truth. “That was Diego.”

Kelsey’s eyes went wide. “Wait, what? I knew you guys had been friends back in grade school. Middle school, even. You never said anything about crushing on him!”

Innie lifted the bottle and raised her eyebrows in a question.

I waved my assent to another glass. “I never tol’ — told — anyone. But he figured it out, or one of the guys did. When one of them made a joke about his ‘gay lover,’ I guess he decided he had to defend his manhood or something.”

“So that’s why you were so weird around Dace.” Kelsey reached for her own glass.

“Weird how?” Innie asked. “Like, attracted weird, or repelled weird? Diego frickin’ pounded on him! Her. Whatever.”

Kelsey shrugged. “That’s just it; I couldn’ figure it out. Dace, I understood right off . . . .”

Innie dismissed him. “He’s a cochino. Pigs gonna pig, girl.”

“Tell me something I don’ know.” Kels drank, then looked at me. “Well, which was it? Attracted? Repelled?”

I raised my hands in the universal gesture of confusion. “You’re asking me? Diego hurt me worse’n anyone. Maybe even worse than Padre, ‘cuz I always knew Padre wouldn’t get the whole trans thing. But . . . I spent a lot of years pining, know what I mean? I couldn’t just turn it off, when Diego decided to hate on me.”

Innie’s laugh was close to a guffaw. “Shit, Kels, you were right when you said I shoulda seen it alla ’long.”

“I know, right? All girl, all the fucking time.” She knocked back what was left in her shot glass and held it out to Innie for another pour.

But she kept her eyes on me. “I wasn’t asking about Diego. What about Dace?”

“No interest,” I said promptly. “He looks so much like Diego, it tiggers a lodda . . . .” I paused to untangle my tongue. “Triggers a lot of . . . memories. And I wish to fuck it didn’t! But, no. Dace does nothing for me.”

She held her refilled glass at eye level between us. “Truth?” she challenged.

I put my glass against hers, careful not to break them both. “Truth.”

Both shots went home.

Innie let out an unladylike burp, followed by something that sounded suspiciously like a giggle. “What abou’ you, Kels? Does Dace do anything for you?”

Kelsey responded with a self-satisfied smirk. “I ain’ tellin’, you jealous bitch!”

Things went downhill from there, after a fashion. It got pretty raunchy, anyway, as the talk turned to men, their deficiencies, and their few redeeming features (which, Kels insisted, after providing some graphic illustrations, really only amounted to one feature). But slowly, imperceptibly, the tensions eased, and the past, finally, gave the present a little room to breathe.

The night wore on, and the tequila kept flowing. The talk turned to family, and Buttonwillow, and what the world is like on the other side of the mountains. We talked about hopes . . . and about regrets.

Kelsey’s complaints were mostly with the quality of the men she had found. Which, given the list she discussed, was unsurprising.

But Uncle Augi had been right on the money about Innie. Damn, that woman wanted O.U.T. She wanted out so bad she could taste it . . . and so bad, it was souring everything in her life, like fresh milk left in the summer sun.

We were pretty far gone when Kels asked about my transition, and I was probably even drunk enough to provide the details she wanted. Mercifully, Innie interrupted with a groan. “Fuuuuck. I’s goddam one fifteen. I gotta work tomorra. Today. Whatever.” Placing a hand on the table to steady herself, she managed to get to her feet. “Wait a sec . . . gotta piss. Maybe heave.” She staggered off to the bathroom.

I looked at Kels. “No way she c’n drive.”

Kelsey bobbed her solemnly. “Nuh-uh.”

I tried to think about it, but my thinking mechanism wasn’t working so well.

Kels looked around stupidly, like there was an answer lurking just out of her line of sight. “She could stay here. Somewhere.”

I shook my head. “Dace’l be comin’ back, maybe.”

“Fuh . . . fuck Dace.”

“Tha’s your job.”

She cracked up. “Yeah, baby! Leas’ he’s good for that!”

Innie emerged, walking better, and we managed to articulate our concerns about her getting behind the wheel. It took a bit longer, but she finally took our point. However, she pointed out that this was “freakin’ Buttwipe” and she only lived four blocks away. She decided to walk home and pick up her car in the morning.

Kelsey and I, of course, had reached the companionable stage where we wouldn’t think of allowing her to walk home by herself, so the three of us were soon stumbling around in the moonlight.

Kelsey had her arm around Innie’s waist; they both seemed steadier as a result. Their new-found closeness made me feel warm inside, at least until I’d tripped over a fire hydrant that came out of nowhere, and practically face-planted. They made me walk between them, all of our arms intertwined, even though I’d had less to drink than either of them. I couldn’t argue; they were way more experienced at drinking.

It’s surprisingly difficult to walk together like that while under the influence. We tripped each other, and stepped on each other’s feet, and inadvertently marched Innie into the trunk of a palm tree.

Turns out she’s really good at swearing, in both English and Spanish. At that point we switched to holding hands, which seemed to work better.

Between swearing and giggling and shoosh’ing, we probably made enough noise to wake everyone at Innie’s house and all their neighbors, too. We managed our goodbyes without getting teary or maudlin. But it felt like our friendship had been restored. Or maybe, re-started, on a better foundation. It felt good.

By the time Kels and I got back to her place it was well after two, and there was still no sign of Dace. Kels seemed unsurprised. Even her comment, “pendejo!” was delivered without much feeling. The walk and the night air had sobered us up just enough to avoid collapsing in our clothes.

I rinsed my face, switched into comfortable light cotton shorts and a tank top for sleeping, and downed a couple ibuprofen with a big glass of water. Brushed my teeth. The girl in the mirror looked wasted, sure enough . . . but maybe not as haunted.

I’d take it.

When I left the bathroom, I heard Kels snoring. That was quick! I filled up another glass of water, went into her room, and left it, with three Advils, on her bedside table.

She’d been less than thorough on her own clean-up, and I seriously doubted that she’d brushed her teeth. But she had taken the time to slip into a short, thin nightgown — a departure from her usual, defiantly tough, look. I smiled, bent down and kissed her forehead. “Nice to see you’re still in there, princess.”

Back in the living room, I got myself settled on the couch. Given everything I had to get done, it had been irresponsible to drink so much and stay up so late. But I’d healed some old wounds — including a few of my own — and I decided that was worth a hangover. I was out within moments, confident that my bladder would keep me from oversleeping.

— To be continued

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.

 

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. Over the course of the weekend, as Carmen attempts without success to determine whether her father — Padre — has insurance, she reconnects with several members of her extended family. Carmen stays with Kelsey, the only family member who had known she was trans, but the situation is complicated by Kelsey’s boyfriend Dace. Dace treats Kelsey poorly; he also reminds Carmen of his younger brother Diego, Carmen’s first crush.

At the end of the weekend, Kelsey tries to make a nice Sunday night dinner for Carmen and Dace, but Dace stands them up. She invites their cousin Inés (“Innie”) to join them instead. Innie is hostile at first, holding long-term grudges against both Carmen and Kelsey. But after a tequila-filled evening, the three of them manage to come to terms and rekindle their old friendship.

Chapter 9: Resolutions

I wrapped my arms around my knees, hugging legs to chest, trying to be small and inconspicuous. Trying to keep them from hearing my sobs. Padre’s clenched fists were pounding the heavy table so hard I thought it might crack, and he shouted to be heard over Momma’s tirade.

I wasn’t processing the words. I never did; they didn’t matter.

I only need . . . .

I desperately needed to pee, but was too terrified to make any move that might direct their anger at me. A dinner plate, still dripping with suds, flew across the room like a frisbee, missing Padre by a country mile but slamming into the wall with more than enough force to shatter, sending shards ripping across the room. As he rose, his face flushed, I couldn’t suppress a whimper.

I startled awake, pulling out of a dream that might or might not have been a memory, only to find that my need to pee was all too real. As was, unfortunately, the sound of intense argument coming from the master bedroom. To make the morning still more perfect, the smell of weed was back with a vengeance.

Unlike the argument in my dream, the one down the hall did not appear to be violent; Kelsey’s voice was low and venomous, Dace’s slurred and deep, but neither were shouting or throwing things. As long as it stayed that way, I intended to mind my own business – starting with a few minutes sitting on some porcelain.

Primary business accomplished, I took a look in the mirror and decided I’d better have another shower. Three nights of less-than-great sleep left me looking, and feeling, washed out. I might be able to get by without washing my hair again, if I could tame the tangles with a brush.

Bueno. I went back to the living room to get what I would need for the day, tuning out the argument that was happening on the other side of an uninsulated interior wall. That was muscle memory, first learned at home, then strongly reinforced on the street. I don’t need to know what they’re saying.

I only need to know . . . .

I’d forgotten to zip my bag, which wasn’t like me. Thinking about the day, I pulled out black pants in some wrinkle-free poly blend and paired them with a conservative top. I would probably need to go to Padre’s workplace in person, and I would definitely need to go back to the hospital. So, a reasonably professional look. Something I would wear to work.

The thought made me chuckle. I might be the only analyst getting up on Monday morning and wishing she could be going into work.

But the chuckle caught in my throat as I noticed something I’d missed when I rolled off the couch to make my bathroom door dash: The ash-tray by the chair facing the couch had been used, and I knew for a fact it had been clean when I went to sleep. Drunk or sober, I would never have gone to sleep with that smell around.

He’d been sitting there, just a few feet away, smoking pot and watching me?

My skin crawled, just thinking about it. God, I can’t let myself drink like that! I should have woken up!

My need for a shower now felt almost as urgent as my earlier need to pee. I made my way to the bathroom, even more determined to ignore the spat that was increasing in intensity if not volume. I can’t hear what you’re saying. I don’t need to know why you’re angry. I only need to know . . . . Am I safe? Can I hide, quietly? Can I walk away?

Or, do I need to run?

The hot water and soap somehow didn’t leave me feeling any cleaner, and even the faint smell of weed on the towels made it worse. Pinche pendejo!!!

At least the argument wasn’t still active when I left the bathroom. Kelsey was in the kitchen, in far more practical sleepwear than I had seen her a few hours earlier — just a light-weight pair of cotton shorts and a sleeveless, racerback top that proudly displayed both muscles and her tats.

One look told me I needed to tread softly. “Hey . . . you okay?”

“Oh, I’m fucking perfect.”

I sat across from her at the small table. “Is there anything I —“

“No.”

“Do you want to —“

“No.” A bit more forceful, this time.

We sat in silence for a few moments. She drank her coffee and I tried to come up with something to say. Nothing came to me, though.

Finally I reached over and put a hand on top of hers. “Kels . . . I’ve gotta go, and if I get everything done today I’ll head back home. But I’m only a phone call away, okay?”

She nodded, but didn’t say anything.

I gave her hand a squeeze, got up, collected my bag, and walked out, feeling hollow. But I hadn’t gotten half way to my car when she stomped out of the house and said, “Hey.”

I turned around and she caught me in a death grip of a hug. After a second’s surprise, I managed to return it.

“Call me before you leave this time, okay?”

“Kels —”

“Not now,” she directed, interrupting again. “I can’t deal right now. Just . . . call me later?”

I had no better option than saying “of course,” so I did. Then she let me go — abruptly — and marched back into the house.

~o~O~o~

I wasn’t surprised that Kern Cotton’s telephone was still running its horrid automated telephone system. Lots of businesses found it easier to deal with the public that way, and chances were good that the owner and his sons gave their private numbers to their important customers. I couldn’t blame them, since anyone hired to answer the telephone would mostly just be dealing with computerized spam calls. Better to let the recorded voices babble at each other. AI foreplay.

The upshot, though, is that I needed to drive out in person. Kern Cotton was up near Wasco, just twenty minutes away over two of the long, ruler-straight roads that make up much of the San Joaquin’s infrastructure.

Unfortunately, Wasco was also the home of Central Valley High School. With only a couple hundred households, Buttonwillow was nowhere near large enough to have its own high school, so we all got bussed to CVHS. Padre usually dropped me off in the mornings since it was on his way to work, but I got out hours before his shift ended and would take the bus home.

I didn’t need more memories banging on my skull, but every sight, smell and sound seemed like a trigger. Here was the roadside stand that had great produce; there was the place the bus went off the road when tule fog caused an early morning collision between a pick-up and one of the big dump trucks headed for the Shaftner landfill. There was the Catholic Church that looked like an overgrown Taco Bell.

And there they were — the low, mustard-brown buildings with the dark brown trim. In front of the buildings, seemingly larger, stretched the football field where so many of my childhood friendships were tested, and failed. Where the chavos I had known since grade school, the boys I had played baseball with, turned on me. Tomás, Santi, all the rest. I’d maybe hoped for better, but I’d always known their friendship was soft. Provisional. They only tolerated me because Diego did.

I had thought so much more of Diego. He’d treated Innie with respect, but I was barely worth his contempt.

“Chill, girl!” His laugh was patronizing, but he needed both hands to keep Innie at arm’s length. “You want the puto? You can have him.”

She didn’t stop swinging, and her voice was a battlecry. “You’re gonna eat that shit, cochino!”

“What do you want it for, anyway?” Tomás sneered. “Puto’s not into your kind.”

She spun out of Diego’s grip to clip Tomás on the side of the head, hard enough to make his ears ring. “You don’t fuck with a Morales – ANY Morales! – or we will Fuck! You! Up! Got it???”

“Leave it, Compas.” Diego looked down at me, as I struggled to get back to my feet. “Just stay away from us, Puto,” he spat. “Far away.”

It was not so easy to stay away, when you see the same people every day. Wherever I went, the whispers followed. I would be tripped in the halls; my locker would be defaced. My books dumped in trash cans.

I thought I deserved it, back then.

It would be easy to say that I have no idea how I survived, but that wouldn’t be true. I know exactly how. My secret “girl time” with Kelsey. Abuela’s uncompromising demand that I excel in school. And one extraordinary teacher who saw something in me when no-one else did.

He was half-sitting, half-leaning on his big, squat, metal and formica desk, his long legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles. Despite the setting, he somehow managed to look like a Seventeenth Century grandee in a Velázquez painting. The same impossibly high forehead and cheekbones; the long, narrow face; the dark, intense eyes over the eagle’s beak of a nose.

“My name is Alfonso Filipe Olivares y Cortez. It is my duty and privilege to try to get all of you to learn something about the past. And you will tell me – if you find the courage! – that you don’t care.” His knowing smile and the lift of a thin, aristocratic eyebrow challenged the room to contradict him, but of course no-one did. “You will tell me that the past does not matter.”

All traces of amusement vanished in an instant, replaced by intensity and conviction. “I will respond with the words of a wise man, that you would do well to remember: ‘The past is never dead. It's not even past. All of us labor in webs spun long before we were born, webs of heredity and environment, of desire and consequence, of history and eternity.’”

He lit a spark that morning, that first day of my sophomore year. He spoke with passion and poetry about an idea as abstract as the relevance of history, and I found myself, for the first time in my life, wanting to be educated. Wanting, with all my heart, to imagine a world beyond Buttonwillow, beyond Kern County, beyond farming. To see it, experience it. Live it. From that day forward, I didn’t just study to keep Abuela off my back.

One good teacher. That’s all it took.

I realized with a start that I’d been stopped by the football field, oblivious to the passage of traffic or time. I shook my head and got the car back on the road.

The past is not even past.

The last few days demonstrated the wisdom of Faulkner’s words, which Señor Cortez worked so hard to hammer into our thick, adolescent skulls. I was a twisted lump of metal caught between the hammer of Abuela’s relentless, immigrant ambitions and the anvil of my parents’ broken dreams. I had no power to outrun my dark memories, nor any way to keep them buried. They were part of me.

But that idealistic, inspirational teacher was a part of my past, too. I needed to remember that.

~o~O~o~

Like Buttonwillow itself, Kern Cotton seemed unchanged, even as the people I associated with both places aged — sometimes radically. The squat, low building that housed the office remained near the entrance. Someone had installed a ramp to the front door by the side of the stairs. At a guess, this had nothing to do with complying with disabilities law. Old man Cavallaro probably needed it, these days.

I recognized the woman who was in the process of making coffee in the front office area, though I doubted I’d ever known her name. Anglo, mid-fifties. Running a little plump. She looked over as I walked in. “Be right with you, Hon.”

“No problem,” I replied, stopping at the counter that separated the working area from visitors. Not, “no hay bronca;” not here. Everyone out in the fields would speak Spanish as a first or second language . . . maybe as their only language. But here, in the office, things would be different. They would understand the casual Spanish expression, but using it would send other signals as well. Ones I did not want to send.

She quickly finished getting the coffee machine going and came over, wiping her hands on her jeans. “Sorry about that — nothing moves around here until the coffee’s flowing! What can I do for you?”

“I need to speak with someone about my father, Juan Morales.”

Her expression immediately transformed. “We were so worried about him! Will he be alright?”

“It’s too soon to tell,” I said cautiously. “He’s still in the hospital, and he isn’t conscious yet. They can’t figure out his insurance coverage, and I was hoping someone here could help.”

“Oh, my goodness! I’m so sorry! Let me see if Mr. Cavallaro is available.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“Sure thing, Hon. Just have a seat and I’ll be right back. Can I get you a coffee while you wait?”

I assured her that I was fine, and took one of the vinyl-covered chairs as she hustled to the back of the building.

She looked a bit distracted when she got back. “He’ll be a couple minutes. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some coffee?”

“No, really, I’m fine.”

She went back to her desk and started working on something that apparently took all of her concentration.

After ten minutes had passed, I was having trouble controlling my impatience – and my uneasiness. I returned to the counter to ask if there was a problem.

“No, no. Mr. Cavallaro was just in the middle of something. I’m sure he’ll be right with you.”

“Okay, but . . . .” I decided to play the only card I was holding. “I really do need to be getting back to the hospital.”

“Oh! Yes, of course. I’ll . . . I’ll just go check, okay?” And off she went again.

I stayed at the counter and waited.

After another five minutes she came out again, and this time she looked uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. Mr. Cavallaro says that he has no recollection of Mr. Morales having any daughters. He can’t discuss personnel information with just anyone.”

Much as I wanted to be angry, it should have occurred to me that Padre never told anyone. However, there were conversations I didn’t want to have out in the open with a secretary. “I understand. Listen, I’ve been gone for twelve years, but I have met Mr. Cavallaro on several occasions. If he could spare five minutes of his time?”

She looked dubious and sounded even more so. “Well . . . I’ll ask him.” Back she went. Two minutes later she returned, followed by a large man with jet-black hair who looked more than a bit annoyed.

I’d never met him in my life.

He walked to the counter briskly. “I’m very busy this morning. Mrs. Ivers said you know me or something?”

I shook my head, a bit confused. “I’m sorry; she said she was getting Mr. Cavallaro. I thought she meant the owner?”

“I am the owner. And I don’t recall ever meeting you.”

My brain was working slowly, but it caught up. “It’s my mistake; I must have met your father. I was here a few times when I was in high school, but that was thirteen, fourteen years ago.”

He nodded, not unkindly. “He passed three years ago, rest his soul. Now, like I told Mrs. Ivers, I can’t release personnel information. I’m sorry you drove all the way out here, but I can’t help you.”

I opened my purse, pulled out my wallet, and showed my ID. “My name is Carmen Morales, as you see, and Juan Morales is my father. My grandmother called me on Friday and asked me to come back and help with the insurance issues.”

He looked at the ID and shrugged. “‘Morales’ isn’t an uncommon name, especially around here.”

“My Uncle Augustin can vouch for me. I’d call him, but he is stubborn about getting a cell phone. Still, he should be here by now.”

“Ah.” He looked uncomfortable and uncertain – expressions that did not seem natural to his face. But he appeared to reach a decision and turned to Mrs. Ivers. “See if you can get someone to track down Augustin and ask him about Ms. Morales. I’ll be in my office.” He left.

Mrs. Ivers made a call.

I didn’t move from the counter. Too bad if I make you all uncomfortable.

Another ten minutes passed before a call came in that Mrs. Ivers forwarded to the owner. And then, finally, he emerged from his office and waved me in, looking distinctly unhappy. “Please have a seat. I’m sorry to hear about your father.”

I nodded, not saying anything, and perched on the end of the offered seat, my back straight.

He glanced down at a file on his desk. “You were asking about insurance?”

“Yes. He didn’t have an insurance card in his wallet, and I haven’t found one in his papers. I’m pretty sure we were on Kaiser when I was living here, but the hospital said you’ve switched to an employee choice plan?”

He nodded. “That’s right. I checked our records, and it looks like your father took the option to go off the Kaiser plan back in 2018.”

Something felt wrong, but I decided I’d play dumb. “Okay, that’s helpful. Was he required to inform you of the name of the plan he selected?” You’d better say “yes” to that one!

An unhappy nod. “Yes. We have his election form.”

“Great,” I said brightly. “Can I get a copy? That should have everything the hospital needs.”

“Ummm . . . look. I’m not a lawyer. I don’t know what we’re allowed to give you, and what we aren’t. All this privacy stuff is a headache. I’m really not comfortable handing over personnel documents.” He again looked down at the manilla folder on his desk and rather deliberately rested his clasped hands on top of it. “I just don’t think I can do that.”

“Okay,” I said, drawing out the word while I thought about his response. “Can you at least tell me the name of the provider? And maybe the group and member numbers? I don’t need the actual document.”

He squirmed in his seat. “I think I’m allowed to tell you he selected an Anthem Plan. But I’m not comfortable providing any other information. I hope that helps.” Rising, he held out his hand. “Again, I’m sorry about your father.”

I smiled, shook his hand and thanked him for his assistance and well-wishes before departing. He was Padre’s boss and Uncle Augustin’s as well; I couldn’t afford to piss in their sand box. But once I was outside I felt an overwhelming desire to wash my hands.

Something’s not right.

I got in the car and headed South and east. Back to Bakersfield, and the hospital. When I got there I spoke with the folks in billing and told them what I knew, but when they ran it through their systems they didn’t get confirmation of coverage.

“I’m really sorry,” the woman said sympathetically. “It doesn’t necessarily mean your father isn’t on the Anthem Plan. They may just need more information to make a definitive match.”

So I went up to Padre’s room. He was alone, and to all appearances his condition hadn’t changed since Saturday morning. Still hooked up to oxygen. Abuela’s angry cry echoed in my mind. “My son can’t breathe without a machine!”

I stood for a while, looking down at his unresponsive form. Trying, somehow, to connect to the person I’d known. Trying to feel something, whether it was positive or negative. “Why is it,” I finally asked him, “that everywhere I go in this frickin’ county I see or hear or smell something that triggers a memory, but when I look at you, I draw a blank?”

Naturally, the figure in the bed did not respond.

I sat and, with a sigh, pulled out my phone and prepared to do battle with the Leviathan that is the American insurance Industry. It’s part of my job, and I’m good at it, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. I pulled up some of the photos I’d taken while going through his papers, so I had potentially useful information like his Social Security Number and Kern Cotton’s Tax ID number at my finger tips.

After getting through all the different options on the telephone tree, I was eventually able to connect with a person. I explained the situation and asked if they could confirm insurance coverage for Juan Morales, employed by Kern Cotton. I was transferred to another department, where I repeated the story. And then to a third. Then I was transferred to a “manager” who likewise knew nothing.

After two full hours of transfers, music on hold, chirpy recordings asking if I knew I could find “almost everything I need” on the company’s website, and being asked multiple times for the same basic information, I was finally able to speak with someone who had actual information. The woman was able to confirm that Juan Morales enrolled with Anthem in 2018 and paid premiums. Yes, indeed, he had.

For exactly one year.

After that, he stopped, and his insurance was cancelled, after numerous efforts to reach him had failed, sometime in 2019. The woman was “so very sorry” she couldn’t be more helpful.

Son. Of. A. Bitch! At least he had waited until Joaquim was employed and off his plan!

Again, my eyes drifted to the silent figure beside me. “You just had to leave me a steaming pile of crap to clean up, didn’t you?” I shook my head. “Abuela thought you were the smart one. You’ve got to be a super special kind of stupid to pull this!”

California is a generous state. There are programs for people who can’t afford insurance. There are even programs for the inevitable idiots who don’t get insurance until they have a health emergency. “But you have to apply for them, damn you! You didn’t, and no-one can apply for you. Not without an appointment by the Probate Court! And, they’ll need proof of your income and assets, too.” I wanted to pound my fists on something – or better still, someone! – and restrained myself with difficulty. “Just once, couldn’t you have done something right?”

His chest moved up and down. The monitor made noises. The oxygen continued to flow.

And the man in the bed gave me nothing.

“What else is new?” I asked him, my words bitter. “I guess I ruined your life — the one you wanted to make, somewhere far, far away. But I wasn’t the one who decided to have a wild time during summer break, was I? Do you know how much fun I got to have, when I was a year out of high school? All the great parties I went to, when I was sleeping behind a pinche dumpster? When I was stealing clothes and begging for food, and going fucking nuts???”

Crickets.

“You could have aborted. Gone your separate ways. Had nice lives. Did you talk about it? If all you were going to do was blame me for being born, why the fuck didn’t you?”

The figure on the bed blurred as tears of rage overflowed and seeped down my checks. “Why?” I asked, my voice choked to a whisper. “Why bring children into the world, if you can’t love them?”

I wanted to weep, to rage, to scream bloody murder. I wanted to rip the oxygen mask off and slap his expressionless face until he woke up and, for once in his pinche life, gave me answers.

And, somehow, I still just wanted him to love me.

I closed my eyes tight. They weren’t helping. My fists, clenched around the arms of the hospital’s occasional chair, were lost causes for now. I focused on breathing. On clearing my mind. Feeling the frenzied hammering of my heart, and willing it to return to a normal, steady beat.

I don’t know how long it took before I opened my eyes, but when I did they were clear and free of tears. I looked at the figure on the bed, the man who bore no resemblance to the father I recalled.

He slept on, oblivious to my pain. Oblivious to my life.

“All right,” I said conversationally. “I got the life you dreamed about, and the education you abandoned, so I actually know how to clean up your mess. Amazing, isn’t it? Except I expect you’d hate me for that, too.”

I rose and got my purse. At the door I paused, shooting him a parting look that wouldn’t get any points for fidelity to the Fifth Commandment. “Probably as good a reason as any to do it.”

— To be continued

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.

 

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. Over the course of the weekend, as Carmen attempts without success to determine whether her father — Padre — has insurance, she reconnects with several members of her extended family, including her younger brother Joachim (“Ximo”), who doesn’t appear to have grown up much. Carmen stays with Kelsey, the only family member who had known she was trans, but the situation is complicated by Kelsey’s boyfriend Dace. Dace treats Kelsey poorly; he also reminds Carmen of his younger brother Diego, Carmen’s first crush.

Kelsey and Dace are fighting when Carmen leaves their house on Monday morning, expecting to return to her Orange County home later in the day. After a visit to her father’s employer and lengthy telephone calls, she determines that he does not, in fact, have any health insurance. She rails at him in his hospital bed, but he remains in a coma, unresponsive.

Chapter 10: Challenge and Response

Dwayne picked up on the first ring. “Carmen! What’s the word? Is your father better?”

Finding a quiet place to make telephone calls in a hospital – other than in Padre’s room! – had been a challenge, but eventually I’d found a couple of chairs in an out of the way part of the main lobby which no-one was using. In a low voice, I gave my boss the update, which was far from positive.

“He’s still in a coma; no change. And, it turns out he’s uninsured.”

“Oh, no!”

“I know, right,” I agreed, disgusted.

After a moment, he said, “What’s your plan?”

“Well, I need to get him enrolled in one of the state programs, pronto. But of course, he’s got nothing like a power of attorney, or . . . well. Anything.”

“Shit. That’s gone from bad to worse.”

“Exactly. So . . . we’re going to have to get a conservator appointed. I expect it’ll take a couple days to work it out. I was wondering whether I might be able to work remotely while I get that taken care of.” He didn’t answer right away, and I hastened to add, “I should be fine after this week.”

“Ahhhh . . . .” Dwayne sounded distinctly uncomfortable. “Carmen, you know I’d love to say ‘yes.’ But we just got everyone back in the office full time. Corporate made it real clear they don’t want to be making exceptions.”

“Oh.” My heart sank.

“Obviously, you should absolutely feel free to take any sick leave and vacation days you’ve accrued, and you’re entitled to take additional unpaid leave under FMLA. But I just don’t have the leeway to approve remote work right now.”

Between school and my transition surgeries, I didn’t have a lot of paid time off built up. And unpaid leave would put me in a real bind – I wasn’t quite living paycheck to paycheck, but it’s not like I had a lot of savings, either.

My job was important to me, and Dwayne was both a good boss and a decent human being, so I tempered the disappointment that washed over me. “That’s okay. Really. It was worth a shot. I’ll find a way to make it work.” Thinking furiously, I added, “I’ll need to be up here one more day, and I should be able to cover that and today with sick leave. But I’ll be in the office Wednesday morning.”

“Understood. I’m really sorry, Carmen. I wish I could help – especially because you’re one of our very best employees. I know you’d never abuse remote work.”

I thanked him and promised to keep him posted.

It was 1:45, and I had a lot that I would need to get done to keep the promise I just made. I shot a text to Katie. Hey, wild woman. Can I pull you away from work for a minute? Need a favor.

Rather than send a text, she called. “What’s up, girlfriend? How can I help?”

I sagged with relief. “I take back all the terrible things I’ve ever said about you.”

“That’s just it. You never say terrible things about anyone.”

“My family might argue,” I chided.

“Well, if you did, they deserve it,” my roommate replied. “So what’s going on?”

“Well, it turns out my idiot father doesn’t have insurance. I’ve got to get him onto a state plan, but we need to get a conservatorship in place so someone can sign the papers.”

She was suddenly all business. “You need to talk to Al, our family law expert. He’s a great guy.”

I shook my head, though she couldn’t see it. “I can’t afford to hire your firm to do it, Katie! I took family law last fall. It wasn’t one of my best classes, but I know enough to fill out the necessary paperwork. I’d just feel a whole lot better if someone could look it over, you know? I can probably afford an hour or two of his time.”

“Let me see if I can sweet talk him out of a couple hours at a discount. He owes me.”

“Owes you?” My tone was maybe a bit sus. Katie had a rep, after all!

“Get your mind out of the gutter!” she laughed. “He’s a smart boy, but he’s clueless about networks. I took an evening and set up his whole house for him.”

“Oh! Well . . . . it’d be great if he could do it.”

“Ya, sweets! So . . . what’s your timing?”

“I need to be back at work Wednesday morning, so I’d like to file everything with the Probate Court tomorrow if I can,” I said, working backwards from the deadlines I knew I was dealing with. “I’ll need a letter from the treating doctor, assuming I can find her. But I should be able to get a draft of the rest of the package prepared by the end of the day. Maybe 6:00?”

She grunted. “Well . . . I know he’s in the office today, though I don’t know his availability. Let me call him right now and find out if he’s got time to help, okay?”

“Katie, you’re a lifesaver!”

“Not yet, I ain’t,” she warned. “But I’ll for sure try my best.”

“Thanks!”

Katie hopped off the call, and I went out to the car to get my laptop. I knew I was going to need it. Then I returned, with a sigh, to the ER and Padre’s quiet room. At the nurse’s station, I asked whether it would be possible to speak with Dr. Chatterji some time in the afternoon, and was told she would be around later.

Confident that Katie would come through – she can be very persuasive, and I had no doubt the lawyers at her firm appreciated just how good she is – I buckled down and got to work. Probably half an hour later, deep in my research, I got the “ping” alert of an incoming text.

Rather than the confirmation from Katie, though, it was a picture of a dilator and a half-full jar of lubricant, sent from an unknown number.

My dilator.

“What. The. Fuck!” How I managed to keep my voice low is beyond me.

Ping. “Why you want this babe”

Ping. “When you can have THIS?”

“This” being, naturally, a fully erect, tumescent penis – a photo taken at extreme close range, to make sure I didn’t miss any of the fine details.

“You son of a BITCH!” I knew exactly whose junk was displayed in the photo, and I had a strong desire to hunt him down and feed it to him, bite by horrid bite. That fucking cochino had gone into my suitcase right in front of me, while I was sleeping. And while Kelsey was in the other room, all frickin’ dolled up for him!

Ping. “you know you want it”

Ping. “she’s out. Daddy’s home. Come and get it.”

My hands balled into fists, my jaws clamped down hard, and my voice came out in a hiss. “You Goddamned . . . .”

There was only one functioning streetlight in the parking lot, completely insufficient to the space it was tasked with illuminating. It was 2:30 in the morning and black as a tar pit; I could barely make out the surrounding buildings.

“Not the best part of town,” the trucker said, as if making an observation about the weather. “But I gotta get goin’.”

I nodded, trying to keep my fears from showing. It had been so strange, coming down the south side of the mountains, seeing the storm of lights. It’s not like I’d never been, but . . . I’d never thought about living here. LA was vast, impersonal, and overwhelming. I was seventeen. Cut off from everyone and everything I’d ever known. Scared.

“I could take you somewhere nicer,” he said. His voice sounded odd. Suggestive.

Oily.

“That . . . that would be . . . .” I tried to get the words out, but my brain was skipping.

He ignored me. “I need you to do me a favor though.”

I turned my eyes from the blackness outside to look at him, and saw to my horror that he was undoing his belt.

“Gets lonely, truckin’.”

I shrank back. “No!!! No! I’m not like that!”

His pants unbuttoned, he reached in and freed his dick, which was half way between on and off. “C’mon now, sugar,” he wheedled. “I did you a solid.”

“No! Please!”

“Your lips say ‘no,’ your eyes say ‘yes,’” he teased in a sing-song voice, like he was repeating a line he’d heard in some sick porn flick. “You know you want it.”

I yanked the door open and tumbled to the pavement, landing painfully. But I didn’t stop to take stock of my injuries. Scrambling to my feet, I took off, reaching for the shadows, his mocking laughter ringing in my ears.

In moments, the darkness swallowed me.

I shook my head angrily, dispelling the memory that clung and reeked like Dace’s pinche weed. Through my still-clenched teeth I said, “I’m not seventeen anymore, and you are fucking with the wrong goddam woman!”

I hammered my response and hit send. “Cops are going to love looking at your dick, asshole.”

Ping. “Cops know what to do with tranny bitches.”

Ping. “And so do I.”

I blocked the number and sat, fuming. I really didn’t want to deal with either the Bakersfield Police or the Kern County Sheriff’s Department. It would be just one more spider thread binding me to this place, one more loose end I’d have to tie up. And . . . Dace might be all-too-right about how they would treat me. Fuck!!!!

I was going to have to tell Kels, though, even though I knew it would cut her like razor wire. Even though it might well blow up the new, fragile, tentative friendship we had forged over the past few days. She needed to know.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!!!! I don’t have TIME for this!

~o~O~o~

The call was just about as awful as I thought it would be. She ended it abruptly, just as I made the turn onto Padre’s street.

Put it aside, I told myself. Stay focused. One disaster at a time.

Joaquim was waiting outside, shoulders hunched, hands deep in his pockets. “Do you really need me for this?” he asked as he lowered himself into the passenger seat. “You know the old witch don’t like me.”

“I’m not looking forward to it either,” I said, maybe a bit more sharply than I intended. After my crapper of a day, I wasn’t in the mood for his whining. “Don’t feel bad; she doesn’t like anyone.”

He opened his mouth with another protest, but I cut him off. “C’mon, Ximo, Buckle up. He’s your Padre too.”

“Don’t I know it.” He sounded put upon, but he clicked the seatbelt into place and shut the door. “Let’s get it done, okay?”

I put the car in reverse and got us on the road. “Anna waiting for you?”

“Nah, she’s got something going with her fam.”

I thought of old man Aguilar’s face, as I’d seen it at the Frosty Freeze the day before. Weathered, competent. Fierce. And that’s probably Anna’s GRANDfather! “You don’t want to mess around with that family,” I warned.

He laughed. “You’ll be tellin’ Abuela how to sew, next.”

I drove another block, up past Uncle Angel and Aunt Maria’s house. “Are you two serious?”

He shrugged. “We have fun,” he said, sounding defensive.

“Okay, ’mano, but . . . seriously –” I didn’t get any further.

“Just stop, okay?” His voice was even sharper than mine had been, with a burn that felt it had been building for a while. “You want me along, fine. I’m here. But you can’t dance in after twelve years and start telling me how to lead my life, okay? Anna’s my business. Not yours!”

I was silent as we drove the last two blocks, then parked the car. When he reached for the door handle, I put a hand on his arm. “Ximo . . . you’re right. I was out of line, and I’m sorry.”

He looked down, and out the window. Anywhere but at me. “It’s just been me and the old man,” he said after a moment, his voice low. “And he’s, like, whatever. You, Mama, the baby . . . all of you were gone. I can’t . . . .” He shook his head, trying to come up with a way to articulate what he was feeling. “I can’t be a little brother anymore. I don’t know that gig.”

Oh, Ximo! “I wasn’t much of a big brother,” I confessed. “And I never got to be a big sister, so I don’t know how any of that works, either.”

“Okay.”

“We good?”

He nodded. “Let’s do it.”

Gaby answered the door, looking a lot more like the Lupe I remembered than Lupe herself currently did. Though . . . no. Lupe had been the complete, unrivaled high school queen. Gaby was pretty – even very pretty! But not that.

She was giving me as close an inspection as I was giving her, and whatever she saw caused her to giggle. “You really are a ‘Carmen,’ aren’t you? Did you –”

“Don’t,” I said, cutting her off. “Just don’t.”

“Well, fine,” she pouted, letting us in. “Be that way. She’s in the living room.”

We knew the way, of course, and mercifully, Gaby didn’t follow us.

Abuela was sitting in a straight-backed chair, her hands curiously still. In my memories, her hands were always in motion. Cooking or cleaning or sewing and mending. She turned her face to the doorway as we walked in; if I didn’t know she was blind I wouldn’t have guessed.

“You have news.”

I took a chair that faced where she was sitting; Ximo sat to my left. Keeping my attention on her face, I said, “Yes. The test results aren’t good. Dr. Chatterji isn’t seeing any sign of improvement. The most she can say is that he’s ‘stable.’”

Her sightless eyes were staring straight at me. Weighing my words, as she had always weighed them.

“How long?”

I wasn’t sure what she was asking. “How long before . . . ?”

“Before they give up.” The harsh tone with which she said “they” proclaimed her opinion of the entire medical establishment. “Hours? Days?”

“It doesn’t work like that. I mean, I suppose it could, if he had a ‘do not resuscitate’ directive on file or something, but he’s got nothing. They’ll just keep at it, hoping he comes around.”

“Even after they decide he won’t?”

“That’s not their decision to make. Which is the other reason why I needed to talk to you both.”

Abuela nodded, understanding the heart of the issue even if she didn’t know the details. “We need to decide who decides, then.”

“Right,” I agreed. “But it’s not just decisions affecting his medical care. We also need to get him signed up for one of the state programs for uninsured people. And, to qualify, we’re going to have to itemize his assets, which means we’ll need to have access to all of that information.”

“I’m pretty sure his checking account is at BofA,” Joaquim offered, speaking for the first time.

“Do you know where his checkbook is?” I hadn’t seen one when I went through his papers. I hadn’t seen any bank statements, either.

He shook his head. “He just does stuff on the phone, you know? Same as me.” It was apparent that Ximo thought the idea of paper checks was as outdated as whale oil.

I hadn’t thought Padre would be the type to do online banking, but it could make some things a lot simpler. “Do you have his passwords?”

“What? No, of course not!”

I sighed. So much for “easier.”

“So,” Abuela said, bringing us back to task. “What do we need to do?”

“There’s a process. A legal process, through the probate court. They have to appoint what’s called a ‘conservator.’ Like a guardian, but for an adult. Someone who can act on behalf of Padre, while he’s incapacitated. I did a draft of the papers this afternoon, and I’ve got a lawyer down in Orange County checking my work tonight so we can file tomorrow.”

“You are in a hurry?” Abuela’s question might have been sharp, but it was more curious instead.

“Yes. The hospital fees are going to destroy him, assuming he’s got any assets to begin with. We’ve got to get him in a state program.”

“The government only moves fast when it wants something,” she observed. “How long will it take?”

“It’ll be a few days at least,” I acknowledged. “Even though we’ll be filing a motion for an emergency appointment of a temporary conservator, which they can do while they consider whether to appoint a more long-term one. They still have to send out notices and interview the proposed conservator. And people can object.”

She grunted, indicating that she understood, then sat silent for a moment before saying, “You need to do it.”

“I’ll file the papers,” I agreed.

“No. I mean you need to be the, what is it? ‘Conservator?’” She pronounced each syllable of the word carefully, as if trying it out on her tongue.

I started to shake my head, then reminded myself that she couldn’t see. “No. I’ll get it set up, but I’ve got to get back to my job. To my life.”

Annoyance flared over her face. “I have said, we will not discuss this!”

I’d known that this moment would come, and I’d steeled myself for it. “I don’t plan to ‘discuss’ it. It’s not open for discussion. I’m going home, as soon as I get things settled, and that’s final. I’m sorry, Abuela.”

Her fury was instant. “You’re sorry? That man gave you life! He gave up his dreams for you!”

To my complete shock, Ximo responded before I could, and his voice was harsh. “He kicked her to the curb. So did I. So did you. What you’re asking . . . it’s not right, Abuela. It’s not right.”

Her head turned toward where Ximo was sitting, as tightly wound as I’d ever seen him. “Are you prepared to look after your Padre? To do what has to be done?”

“I, uhhh . . . .” He looked at me, pleading.

“Tell us what this ‘conservator’ will need to do.” Abuela’s tone was undiluted acid.

“Well . . . .” I took a deep breath. “He – or she – will need to track down all of Padre’s assets and get notarized statements of account. Checking, savings. Does he have a 401(k)?” I looked at Ximo.

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Well, whatever. You know, pension, all of that. Then, make sure that all his bills are paid and current, so no-one shuts off the power or forecloses a mortgage. And, like I said, file the paperwork for a state health care program that covers indigent people who aren’t insured, and work through that application process. He might . . . no. Let’s be honest. He will need to go on disability. SSDI. Maybe workers’ comp, though I’m not sure.” I thought a moment, and added, “And, of course, deal with the doctors and the hospital about his continuing care.”

“I can’t do almost any of that; I can’t even sign a document without a witness.” Abuela’s hand slashed through the air, radiating the same anger as her tone. “Joaquim?”

“I mean, I could, like, do some of it, but . . . .”

“But.” Abuela put a definitive period on the statement.

“Maybe Uncle Augustin?” I said, sounding hopeless even to myself. “You know I’d help whoever took on the job. It’s not like we don’t have phones. And email. And texts.”

She sat still as an icon for a long moment. This time when she spoke, she sounded tired. And old. “Joaquim. Could you go ask Gaby if she would bring me a cup of tea?”

The speed with which Ximo agreed and vacated the room was impressive.

Watch out, I told myself. Here it comes.

When his heavy footsteps faded, she turned her face back to me. “Carmen. . . . Debes ver que no hay elección.” You must see there is no choice.

I felt a lump rise in my throat. “You gave me my name,” I whispered.

Her head inclined, casting her face in shadow. “You are who you are.”

I felt tears prick my eyes, and fought them. “I still have to go. You know there is no place for me here. There never was.”

“Sí. Lo sé.” I know. She added, oddly enough, in English, “But this thing – this ‘conservator.’ It is beyond us. All the things that will need to be done, and done quickly? With the courts. With the state. The government. I’d never even heard of such a thing before today. You knew all about it.”

“Like I said, I can walk people through it. You, Ximo, Uncle Augi . . . .”

“And we would just be parroting what you said. What is the sense in that?”

“I can’t lose my job!”

“Would you need to be here every day?”

I thought about that. “Nooo,” I said carefully. “But most of the days I would need to be here would definitely be weekdays. That’s when banks and courts and state offices are open.”

“How often?”

“I . . . don’t know.”

The silence stretched. No, I told myself. No. I won’t do it. I won’t!

“Would you have me beg?” Her voice was almost bitter.

“No!”

“Or apologize, for not keeping you here, twelve years ago?”

“It’s not that, Abuela.” I looked at her proud, ravaged face, and couldn’t keep from adding, “Besides. You aren’t sorry.”

“No.”

More silence. Isn’t that pinche tea ready yet? Fuck, Ximo! Where ARE you?

I scrubbed my face with both hands, thinking hard. “The temporary conservator . . . it doesn’t have to be the same person as the long-term one.”

“Ah.” She leaned back, her face once again oriented perfectly toward mine. “So?”

“I can probably manage the temporary,” I said reluctantly. “But for long term, you need someone else, alright?”

She nodded sharply. “Let’s deal with that issue when we have to.” Maybe it was just me, but she sounded annoyingly smug.

Pinche witch!!!

~o~O~o~

Once we were back in the car, Ximo gave me a knowing look. “She got you to say yes, didn’t she?”

“Oh, fuck you,” I growled.

“She gets what she wants,” he replied, ignoring my jibe. “Every time.”

I started the engine. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

We were almost at Uncle Angel’s when he said, “Sorry, ‘mano. I mean – not ‘’mano.’ Fuck. You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.”

“I’da helped. I would. I know I owe you. But, fuck. All that pinche paperwork, and courts, and shit? That’s so not my world, you know?”

I gritted my teeth, but however reluctantly, I nodded. “I know.”

“If there’s anything I can do, you know . . . I mean, something, like, normal . . . ?”

I shot him a look before returning my eyes to the road. “You serious?”

“Yeah . . . .” The word came out slowly. Like he didn’t trust me.

And, you shouldn’t! “Something I need your help with right now, maybe.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. Look . . . You know the guy Kels is living with?”

“Dace Guttierez? Yeah, I know him.” The way he said the name indicated that he didn’t have any higher opinion of Dace than I did.

“He . . . uhh.” How to put this? “He did something today that I had to tell her about, and she was seriously pissed. So, I was thinking I’d just like to swing by to make sure she’s okay.”

He didn’t say anything, which was surprising. I looked over to find him glaring at me.

“Pull over,” he glowered.

“Huh?”

“Pull. Over. I don’t want to have this talk while you’re driving.”

I did as he requested, and even set the parking brake. What’s gotten into him?

“Okay, sister. Just what did that cochino ‘do’ today, that had our Amazon warrior bitch of a cousin upset?”

“It’s not important. And it's . . . well, it's private. Just for Kelsey.”

“No.” He shook his head, angrily, his eyes smouldering. “No, it isn’t. Not if he did something to you.”

“Ximo! What is wrong with you?”

“Fuck!!!” His expression mixed anger, loss, bewilderment. “I may not know how to be a brother. A brother to a sister, anyway. But no-one gets to you without getting through me first! Even I know that!”

It would have been funny, if it hadn’t been so touching. I’d survived South Central as a seventeen-year-old, and there hadn’t been any family there to run interference. But however misguided, he was trying, just like he’d tried with Abuela.

I put a hand on his arm and pressed gently, feeling his bowstring-tight muscles under my fingers. “Thank you. Really. But Kels is the one I’m worried about. Let’s just swing by the house and check in on her. If there’s no trouble, I don’t want us starting any.”

He was trying to get himself under control, but his voice was still tight. “Did he touch you?”

“No! No, Ximo. Nothing like that.”

“Alright.” He took a deep breath, and gave me another glare. “I’ll come with you. But –”

I pressed harder. “No ‘buts,’ brother. I don’t need any trouble. And I don’t need you coming in ready to do damage, okay?”

“Then what am I supposed to be doing?” Now he was exasperated, but that was an improvement over “offended in a point of honor.”

“Just look large, male, and hulking,” I suggested with a smile. “It would be good to have a bit of backup, you know. I don’t expect any trouble, but if someone’s with me it’s even less likely.”

“Well . . . “ he said reluctantly. “Dace’s bigger’n me, so I probably won’t intimidate him. But if anything does happen?” He grinned evilly. “I’ll fuck him up.”

It would have to do. I drove over, hoping for the best.

But honestly, not really anticipating anything that could pass for “good.” Kels had been finishing up a job in Bakersfield when I reached her, and she’d been just as furious as I’d expected. At Dace, mostly, but also at me. Which made no sense, while at the same time making all the sense in the world.

By now, she’d probably have been home for a half hour. Things would be working out or they wouldn’t. If they didn’t . . . .

“Fuck.” We could hear the shouting from the curb, just as soon as we got out of the car, so we rushed up the driveway and I hammered on the door.

No answer. They probably couldn’t hear over the shouting.

I don’t need to hear what they are saying. I only need to know . . . .

My “danger” filter was active, but this time it was screaming “red alert.” I hammered on the door again, then turned to Ximo. “Get your phone out. Start recording!”

He looked blank for a moment, then nodded sharply and pulled out his phone.

I hammered again, but then Kelsey’s screaming rose, transforming into a shriek in pain. I tried the door, only to find it locked “Fuck!”

“Stand back,” Ximo warned.

I turned, just in time to see him raise his work boot and slam it sole-first into the door, right next to the nob.

The door flew open and I was inside in a flash.

Kels was in the corner, trying to ward off a flurry of blows from an enraged Dace. He spun towards us the instant the sound of the crashing door registered. “Out! Fucking out! Tranny BITCH!”

Ximo started to shout something in return, but I yelled over all of them. “STOP! Dace, step away from her!!”

Instead he charged and was on me before I could move. With one effortless motion of his left arm and shoulder, he knocked me down and away, while his right fist punched forward, straight to Ximo’s gut.

Kels hadn’t moved from the corner. Ximo, winded, was desperately trying to block Dace’s follow-up swings, but he couldn’t keep up.

And I was back in a cold, dark alley, on an even darker night, surrounded by looming shadows, hearing someone coming closer, knowing I was trapped. No place to run. Knowing my only escape was going straight at whatever was approaching. . . .

The thunderclap froze all motion. Overwhelmed all other sound.

My hands were steady as I brought the Ruger down and on target. “You only get one warning shot, cochino. On the ground, spread eagle. NOW.”

I could see the wheels turning in his pinche little pig brain as he stared at me, wondering if he could move fast enough to disarm me.

I took two steps back, hoping to change the math, and made a point of squaring up my shot in a firm, two-handed grip. Just like I’d learned in the courses I had been so glad to take.

His expression suddenly changed and he dropped. “Fuck! What’s wrong with you, bitch?”

“Hands behind your head,” I instructed.

He knew the drill.

I looked at Ximo. “You okay, ‘mano?”

He nodded, shaky.

“Can you call the police? The neighbors probably did it already, but it’s better if they hear from someone here.”

He nodded again and stepped around Dace to retrieve his phone.

Without looking away from Dace, I said, “Meet them outside and bring them in. They bust in here, first thing they’ll do is shoot me.”

“Jesus.” He went outside.

“Kels?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” She sounded shaky, too.

I was about to ask if she was okay, but didn’t. Stupid question. “How bad is it?”

“Not sure. He got me pretty good.”

I thought about giving Ximo a holler and asking him to call an ambulance, too, but that didn’t make any sense. The police would do that, probably.

Without changing his posture, Dace said, “Don’t get the pinche sheriffs involved. Fuckers. Just go, okay? I’ll tell them it’s all a misunderstanding.”

“Too late for that,” I said coldly.

“You were gonna fucking shoot me, weren’t you? Cunt.”

I decided there was no reason to provide him with any information on my intentions. I remembered my Uncle Augi’s smiling face, as he slapped Uncle Fernando’s fingers. “Uhhh-uhh-uhh! You gotta pay to see them cards!”

But there was no sense fooling myself. It was all I could do to keep my hands steady as I replayed the tape of the past few moments in my brain. If he hadn’t dropped when he did . . . .

Yes. I would have shot him. Center mass. My finger was already starting to squeeze.

I had an overwhelming, irrational desire to toss the gun out the window, and had to stop myself. I couldn’t lower my guard. Not just yet.

Red and blue flashing lights announced the arrival of the first police car. I moved as far away from Dace as I could, then safety’d the Ruger and set it down on the couch.

Ximo called from outside. “Carmen?”

“Here.” My voice, at least, wasn’t telegraphing my nerves.

“They want you all to come out, one at a time. Hands where they can see them.”

“Okay,” I called back. “Go on, Dace. You’re first.”

He got to his feet and glared at me.

When his eyes fell to the gun, I said, “They’re out there, right now. Even if you got it, you’d be a dead man.”

“Almost fucking worth it,” he snarled. But he turned around, stretched his hands out, and walked out the front door.

I looked at Kels. “Can you make it outside?”

“Yeah, but . . . fuck. My arm really hurts.”

“We’ll get it looked at real soon.”

She needed my help, but she managed it and followed Dace.

My purse was behind the couch, ripped open, contents spilled. I grabbed my wallet and phone, stuck them, awkwardly, in the pocket of my pants, and decided I’d worry about everything else later. I raised my arms and walked out to face the music.

— To be continued

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.

 

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. Over the course of the weekend, Carmen reconnects with several members of her extended family, including her younger brother Joachim (“Ximo”). Carmen stays with Kelsey, the only family member who had known she was trans, but the situation is complicated by Kelsey’s boyfriend Dace. Dace treats Kelsey poorly; he also reminds Carmen of his younger brother Diego, Carmen’s first crush.

On the Monday after she arrives, Carmen is able to determine that Padre is uninsured. Since he remains in a coma, she knows that a conservator will need to be appointed so that the necessary application can be made. Abuela gets Carmen to agree to be the conservator, at least on a temporary basis.

But Carmen’s troubles only mount. Dace sends Carmen a “dick pic” and propositions her. Carmen decides that Kelsey has to be told, even though – as she anticipated – the news enrages her cousin. After she and Ximo visit with Abuela, Carmen swings by to see whether Kelsey is alright. Carmen and Ximo find Dace beating Kelsey in their living room and break up the fight, though Carmen has to fire a warning shot to do it. At the end of Chapter 10, the police arrive and the four of them – Ximo, Dace, Kelsey and Carmen – go outside to deal with them.

Chapter 11: Fallout and Fallback

In the strobing red and blue of the cruiser’s lights – make that "cruisers' lights”; now there were two – I could see Dace spread-eagled against a car, being checked for weapons. Ximo was speaking with an officer out by the sidewalk, and a third officer – a woman, thankfully – was checking out Kelsey’s injuries by the second patrol car.

“Okay,” I called out. “I’m the last one.”

Someone came up the driveway, shining a flashlight right at me. Between the light in my eyes and the backlighting from the cruiser lights, I couldn’t even tell if it was an officer. “Come this way. Place your hands against the garage door.”

I did as I was told and endured a brief and very professional pat-down. “Alright,” he said – it was a he, and mercifully, he shut off the flashlight. Without it, I could see that he was tall – taller even than Dace – and Anglo. Sandy hair, about my age or a year or two older. “Suppose you tell me what happened. Start with your name.”

“Carmen Morales. The victim is my cousin.”

“We’ll get to that,” he said. “Not our first rodeo at this address.”

“What?” Oh, Kelsey!

“So, here’s what we’re going to do,” he said, ignoring my question. “You tell me what happened here, then I’m going to write it up, ask you to look it over, and sign it if you agree with my summary.”

“Are you getting an ambulance for Kelsey?”

“I don’t know that yet,” he said, sounding a bit annoyed. “I just need you to focus on telling me what happened, okay?”

“No, I understand,” I assured him. “But during the course of what happened, I fired a warning shot from my licensed handgun – I’ve got a copy of the license in my wallet – and I left it inside on the couch for you to retrieve. Kelsey lives here, so she can give you consent to go inside and get it.”

That got me a sharp look from officer whatever-his-name-was. “You some kinda lawyer?” His tone indicated he had no fondness for the profession.

“No, sir,” I said, honestly. Not yet!

He instructed me to stay put, then went down and spoke with Kelsey and the female officer who was with her.

After a short conversation, he came back. “Where did you say you left the weapon?”

“When you go inside, there’s a living room directly in front of you. The couch is on the right as you enter. You should also find a fresh bullet hole in the ceiling.”

He nodded. “Stay here.” Then he went inside, walking quickly.

Kelsey’s minder was talking on her radio, while Kels stood by, cradling her arm. I caught her eye and shrugged.

A few minutes later, my officer was back, carrying two marked evidence bags. One contained my Ruger, and the other contained a shell casing. He set them down and took a minute to inspect and photograph my concealed carry permit.

After he put his phone away, he picked up the evidence bags and hefted the Ruger like he was weighing it. In a formal voice, he said, “I’m required to take custody of this weapon pursuant to Section 18250 of the Penal Code. Unless it’s needed for evidence, you can get it back in a couple of days. No less than two, no more than five. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll get a receipt for it, of course.”

“Thank you.”

“Now . . . . your statement?”

I ran through everything, and unfortunately had to share the texts from Dace from earlier in the day, my face flaming with embarrassment. While I was in the middle of giving him my statement, an ambulance arrived for Kelsey. The officer asked that I not speak with her until we were finished, so I had to watch her go, all by herself.

After I was done telling the story, he went and conferred with the other officers. They had a brief conversation, then read Dace his rights, put him in cuffs, and one of the officers drove him away.

He said nothing.

Ximo and I waited while they wrote up draft statements, then reviewed and signed them.

“What happens now?” I asked my officer, after I handed him my signed statement.

“You’re both free to go,” he said. “A prosecutor’s going to review all of this, and there are possible charges that could be filed based on breaking down the door and your weapons discharge. Maybe others. But the clip from your brother’s phone makes the situation pretty clear, and we still got audio even after he dropped it. We’re not seeing any need to take either of you into custody at this time.”

“What about Kelsey?”

“They’re taking her to Mercy, in Bakersfield. You know it?”

“Yeah.” I surely do.

“The DA’s going to have to look at her file. Like I say, not the first DV incident we’ve had here.”

“But we can see her now?”

“Don’t see why not. She’s not in custody.”

“Okay. Thank you for coming so quickly.”

He checked to make sure no-one else was within earshot. “What that guy put in his text, about cops knowing what to do with trans people?”

“Yeah?” My voice was wary.

He shook his head angrily. “It pisses me off that people think we’re all like that. Sure, there’s some guys, like anywhere else. But the Sergeant who trained me, when I first came on – one of his kids was trans. No one gave him any shit about it.”

I blinked, surprised. Ashamed that I hadn’t done so earlier, I looked at his name tag. “Officer Braddock,” I said, “I appreciate that. I really do. And thank you again for your help.”

He smiled, and he and his colleagues left. Someone had secured the front door first. Good.

I found myself sagging with both exhaustion and relief as I watched them depart, then looked at my brother. “How’r you feeling?”

He rubbed his chest absently. “Not too bad. Fucker just surprised me.”

I kept my smile hidden. “Thanks for backing me up. I’d say I’m sorry I roped you into all this, but . . . damn, I’m glad you were there!”

He gave me a strange look. “You scared the shit outta me, you know that?”

“I been knocked down before, ‘mano.”

He shook his head. “That’s not what scared me. That scream you let out . . . Swear to God, I thought they’d opened the gates of hell or something.”

I probably looked just as confused as I sounded. “Scream?”

“You got some fancy word for that sound you make?”

“Ximo . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Are you shittin’ me?” His face was a mask of disbelief.

“Uh . . . no?”

“I’ll play you the tape if you don’t believe me.” He started to pull out his phone.

I honestly was afraid of what I might hear. I screamed? Really? “Later, Bro. I’ve got to get to the hospital and see what the story is with Kels. You’re welcome to come, but you don’t have to.”

“I fuckin’ hate hospitals.”

“That’s okay. You’ve more than done your duty for the day. Let me drop you off.”

When we pulled up to Padre’s house he paused before getting out, and gave me a look. “Never saw you fight before. Not once, you know? All the time, growing up, people would just pound on you. And Padre . . . .” He shook his head.

I wasn’t sure what he was looking for. Finally, I said, “I had to toughen up, Ximo.”

“I guess so.” He gave me another look. “I didn’t ask Saturday, and . . . I guess I should have. Will you tell me about it sometime?”

“Tell you about what?”

“What happened to you. You aren’t who you were and I’m thinking . . . maybe I’d like to know who you are, you know?”

There’s only one response to that and I gave it, though I was very glad that he wasn’t asking to have a heart-to-heart right then and there. But as I got the Kia back onto Front Street and headed back downtown, I wondered.

Did I want to have a relationship with my brother? A day earlier, the answer would have been a resounding “no.” He was an immature 26-year-old who had – as he himself had pointed out – kicked me to the curb when he was 14 and I was 17.

But I sensed something more in him, and that something had a familiar flavor to it. Maybe just a desire to be more. To be better. Better than what we had grown up with, for sure. It was one of the first times I had ever felt any kinship with him.

And that feeling left me all kinds of confused.

~o~O~o~

Kels was at the ER. Coming in by an ambulance dispatched by the Sheriff’s Department, she got higher priority treatment than people who just drove themselves in. No-one was with her when I arrived, and she looked worn-out, cried out, and positively shredded.

“If it isn’t the Pink Power Ranger,” she said sourly.

I came and sat in the chair by the bed. “I’m so sorry.”

“For what? Saving my ass?”

“I should have told Abuela to pound sand when she called. Only thing I’ve managed to accomplish since I got here is cause trouble between you and Dace, and land you in the hospital.”

She started to shrug, but stopped when the motion caused her pain. “It was gonna be somebody. He was tired of me.”

I couldn’t keep the anger from my voice. “Pinche cochino!”

“They’re all like that. And they all get tired of me.” I was about to protest when she said, “Girl, if you go shooting all the cochinos, we’ll run outta dudes.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Yeah, well . . . . Good luck with that.” She gave me a sideways look. “I still think you shouldn’t be shootin’ them.”

“I wasn’t planning on shooting anyone!”

“Sure fooled me. Fooled Dace, too. He might be a cochino, but he can smell a bluff a mile away.”

I squirmed in my seat, feeling uncomfortable.

She tried shifting her position and cursed. “Can you figure out how to raise this bed? I don’t like staring up at you.”

It was straightforward, and we managed to put the bed into the “sitting” configuration. “Better?”

She grunted an acknowledgment, then gave me a serious look. “Carmen. I guess I gotta just say it: You shouldn’t be carrying a gun. Period.”

“If I hadn’t had the gun today –”

“You think I don’t know that?” Her voice shook, and her look was intense enough to shut me up.

When she was sure she had my attention, she continued more softly. “I need you to listen to me, okay? Will you do that?”

I nodded uneasily.

“Yes, I know that Dace would have fucked me up if you hadn’t come when you did. And I know he’d of fucked you and Ximo up, too, if you hadn’t pulled your piece. I get all that, okay?”

“Okay. So . . . ?”

Surprisingly, she reached over and put her left hand on my arm. “I’m saying this ’cuz I love you – even when I want to strangle you. Which is, like, all the time.”

“Yeah, well, I love you, too, bitch,” I snarked. “Now spit it out!”

“You know how many times, these past three days, I’ve seen you go blank? Like you’re suddenly off in some private hell?”

I could think of three without even straining, and those were just the ones where she’d been around. One incident even ended with me clenching a fricking butter knife in a fighting grip. “Enough, I guess,” I sighed.

“Isn’t that what happened tonight, when you got knocked down and came up with a gun in your hand, screaming like something from Night of the Living Dead?”

I looked down at my hands.

“Isn’t it?”

I shook my head. “You’re not 100 percent wrong, but it’s more complicated, okay?”

She just raised an eyebrow, inviting me to continue.

“I don’t remember getting the gun from my purse, or screaming. That much . . . that much, you’re right. But the warning shot was intentional.” I smiled, wanly. “I know I’m not the best shot under pressure. Even I can’t miss the ceiling, when I’m literally in the room.”

She didn’t smile back. “How about when you were pointing the gun right at his chest?”

“I wasn’t in some dream land, if that’s what you’re asking.” I sounded defensive, even to myself.

“You were going to shoot him though, weren’t you?”

Reluctantly, I nodded. “Maybe. Probably, even.”

“Just say ‘yes,’ Carmen. You know it’s true.”

“Fine,” I ground out. “Yes. Happy? But it was only because he was so damned fast. If he’d charged me, I’d have missed. Until he dropped, no-one was safe.”

Her eyes were boring into mine, and I endured it. She needed to know I was being completely honest.

“Alright,” she said grudgingly. “Let’s say I buy all that. What would have happened if your little nightmare had lasted just a bit longer?”

“Who knows?” It was my turn to shrug, defeated. “Okay, Kels. You’re right. Honest to God, I was a fuckload better than this, before I came back to Buttonwillow.”

At my capitulation, she appeared to relax, sitting back in the bed and dropping her arm. “I know you used to go shooting, out in the desert. Never figured you for a gun nut, though.”

I looked at my outwardly badass cousin, messed up and lying in a hospital bed, and shook my head. “You of all people should understand. I’m a girl, but I am fuck all done with being a victim. Know what I’m saying?”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“And speaking of which . . . .”

“Hey, don’t start on me, okay?” She smiled, but it was brittle. “I’ve had a bad day.”

“Want to tell me how you ended up getting used as a punching bag?”

“Not really. It’s fucking embarrassing.”

“Remember, I’m the girl who sprained an ankle trying to walk in your five-inch heels, when you let me wear your Quinceañera dress.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” she warned. “Fuck, it hurts when I laugh.”

“C’mon Kels. Give. When you hung up, I wasn’t sure whose head you wanted to beat in first – his or mine.”

She grimaced. “Yeah, that was just my inner Innie, know what I mean? I might want to blame the whole thing on Innie, now that I think about it.”

I caught her drift instantly. “Lost your temper?”

“Couldn’t have found it if I’d tried,” she agreed, adding, “And I wouldn’t have tried. So I burned rubber all the way back to Dace’s place, meaning to clear out my stuff and go. But he was there, and soon as I saw him . . . . You know how it is. I said some shit. He said some worse shit. Went downhill from there.”

Gingerly, very gingerly, I raised the issue that worried me the most. “The sheriff said this wasn’t their first call.”

She looked away. “Yeah.”

I couldn’t think of what to say, so the silence stretched to an uncomfortable length.

She looked back at me and glared. “Fine. We had some fights. Yeah, a couple got outta hand. It’s no biggie.”

“Like this was no biggie?” I challenged.

“I’m not some pinche little girl, and I don’t need a lecture!”

“I won’t. But I want you to ask yourself what you’d say if I was lying in that bed, and you were sitting here, hearing about my ‘multiple domestic violence incidents.’”

“I’d say you’re an idiot. But I’m not you.” Her shoulders slumped. “I’m just the chick who can’t keep a man happy.”

“Goddamn it, Kelsey!”

She stopped me before I got wound up. “Okay, okay. I take it back. That was stupid, pity-party shit.” Before I could start in on her again, she said, “What’d they do with Dace?”

“Alright,” I growled. “Don’t think we’re done with that topic. But just for now, and only because you might have some broken bones, I’ll let you change the subject!”

“Ain’t you sweet,” she replied, with a sardonic smile. “Now – Dace?”

One more growl, just for emphasis, then I let it go. “After they got everyone’s statements, they arrested him and put him in a cruiser.”

“Yeah . . . I figured they’d have to.”

Just then some medical type bustled in. Mid-forties, black, and triggering every Gaydar on the North American landmass. “Kelsey, honey! Not you again!”

She closed her eyes. “Fuck me!”

He shook his head disapprovingly. “Don’t you be tellin’ me it was the stairs. You tried that last time.”

She moaned, “Doesn’t anyone else work here?”

“Nope, just me,” he said with cruel cheerfulness. “C’mon now; we’ve gotta take you down to X-ray.

“Just shoot me now.”

“All in good time, my pretty!”

And off she went.

It was after midnight when she was released. She had a nasty lump on the back of her head where she’d been slammed into a wall, a deep contusion on her upper arm, and a broken rib, which she had to keep taped up.

I’d made a few phone calls, so I knew that Dace was being held overnight and would go before a judge for arraignment in the morning. That meant it was safe for Kelsey to go home, which was just as well. In all the excitement, I’d missed the chance to get a room at the Motel Six.

~o~O~o~

I was up around 6:00 am, having slept better than I’d had any right to, even if it wasn’t nearly as long as I needed. Too many late nights were starting to wear on me.

But I checked in on Kelsey, who appeared to be sleeping deeply, then made myself some coffee and dry toast. At the kitchen table I fired up my laptop and found an email from Katie’s friend Al, sent around 10:30, with edits on my draft papers for the conservatorship.

His cover email was nice. “Ms. Morales – You’ve done a good job on this, and it doesn’t need a lot of work. I made minor wordsmithing suggestions here and there, and I suggested a couple of additional citations that strengthen your argument. You should review the cases before deciding to include them, of course. Feel free to contact me if you have any additional questions. Consider this one a favor; Katie’s a rock star and everyone here owes her one or five.”

I sent back an effusive reply and copied Katie on it, then went through his suggestions, which really were minor. After logging into my student LEXIS account, I checked the additional cases he’d recommended, getting up in the middle of the project to make a second cup. Just as I finished reading the last one – he was right about all of them – a voice by my ear said, “Boo!”

Naturally, I whacked my knees on the table as I stupidly tried to jump three feet in the air. “Kelsey!”

She chuckled. “I could always get you that way. Anytime you had your head in a book.”

“Yeah. I hadn’t forgotten – though I sure tried.” Despite my surly words, I smiled as I turned to face her, rising at a more normal rate. “Hey.”

“Hey.” She looked disheveled, weary, and in pain. “Say one thing about how I look like shit, and I’ll hurt you,” she warned.

“You couldn’t hurt a hamster right now.”

“I could start singing.”

“Ouch! Yeah, that’d do it. Look, I’d give you a hug but I think I might break you. So give me two minutes, and I’ll make you some breakfast.”

“I won’t fight you.” She stretched — carefully. “But I need a shower first. And coffee. And some drugs.”

“Got it. Do you want me to fill that prescription they gave you?”

She shook her head, decisively. “Fuck, no. Just Tylenol. Advil. Whatever we got in the house.”

I must have looked dubious. “You remember what the doc said about staying ahead of the pain?”

“It’s not as bad as I look.” She moved past me to grab a pod and get the Keurig going. After staring at the machine for a minute while it did its thing, she said, “Remember Janna Corea?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Took a spill off her Scout Sixty. They gave her some sort of pain meds, I don’t know which. She got completely hooked. Fuck . . . I’d never seen anyone go like that. Before you know it, she was breaking her own fingers with a mallet so they’d prescribe her some more. Switching hospitals, ’til they all got wise to her.”

I hadn’t known Janna well, but it wasn’t the first story like that I’d heard. “She didn’t make it?”

Kels shook her head. “No. Died maybe four, five years ago? Anyways . . . none of that shit for me.”

“Stubborn bitch,” I said, before adding, “‘course, it helps that I like stubborn.”

“You would.” She pulled her cup out of the machine and said, “I’ll be out in a few. When I’m human.”

“You need any help getting that binding on and off?”

“Nah. I had a broken rib a few years back and learned how to do it.” Correctly interpreting my sharp look, she added, disgusted, “I fell off a ladder while I was working. Jeez! Want to check my workers’ comp approval?” Shaking her head, she took her coffee back down to the master bedroom.

I quickly finished my last changes on the documents and saved them to a thumb drive for printing. Then I shut down, cleared the table, and looked into the fridge to see what I might be able to make Kels for breakfast.

She had eggs, cheese, cilantro, a red onion, black beans, and some salsa left over from Sunday night. Naturally, she had tortillas, too. That was enough to go by for some huevos rancheros. I got all the prep work done, then waited until Kelsey re-emerged before putting them together.

I held off asking about her plans until we’d pushed the plates back, but I knew the discussion couldn’t wait much longer.

“I’m outta here,” she said definitively. “I was stayin’ with Gomer in a big room over her ’rents’ garage before I moved in with Dace; she said I can crash there ’til I find something else.”

“That’s right, that’s her old Yamaha you’re riding.” Even in high school, Anna Gomez had been crazy about motorcycles.

“Mine now – but only ’cuz her dad fixed up an old Harley for her and she likes it better.”

“Have you already talked to her?”

“Texted this morning.”

“Will you let me help you pack, at least?”

She gave me a look. “You still feelin’ guilty?”

“Yeah,” I agreed, in a tone suggesting this was a no-brainer.

“Well, you shouldn’t, but fuck, I’ll milk it while I can. Won’t take me long, though. I lost ’most everything when they took Papi’s house, and since then . . . I like to keep it light, know what I mean?”

She was right. Even taking into account the time it took to clean up from breakfast, all of her stuff was cleared out and packed up in five boxes and two suitcases in just over an hour. We loaded it all into the Kia and I followed her bike out to the Gomez place.

Anna helped me bring it up to the room, after having to tell Kels on no uncertain terms that she had no business lifting anything. Anna’s father Enrico had a three-car garage for his side-gig/hobby of restoring motorcycles; the room over it really was large. It was obvious that Anna had spent some time that morning trying to tidy up. It was equally obvious that she wasn’t prone to do that by nature.

Well, she and Kels – who, after all, made a living from cleaning things – would need to work that out. I suppose they’d managed before.

Gomer didn’t know about me, but she kept giving me looks like she was trying to figure out where she’d seen me before. I decided I didn’t need to deal with that this morning.

I had enough going on.

It was getting close to noon before I was finally able to extract myself. I’d worked hard not to let my impatience show, but there were things I absolutely had to get done, and I’d already lost the morning.

Kelsey walked me down to my car. “I was stupid yesterday. Got so mad, I thought I was bullet-proof.”

“I know.”

She smiled. “Yeah, okay. I had that coming. But . . . thanks for the rescue.”

“He’s gonna want you back, you know. Don’t do it.”

She laughed. “No way! I told you, he’s done with me.”

“I need you to trust me, Kels. Please.” I gave her good arm a shake to add urgency to my words. “He’ll want you back, and he’ll try to sweet talk you, ’cuz he’ll want you to ask them to drop the charges. Don’t let him off the hook.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Fuck. Hadn’t thought of that angle.”

“Just . . . tell me you won’t, okay? I won’t be here next time.”

“I hear ya.”

“Kels –”

She stopped me. “I said I hear you. And . . . I’ll think about it. Now get moving, okay? You got shit to do today.”

I wanted to stay and argue, but she really is a stubborn bitch, and anyway she was right about how much I needed to get done. I pressed a hand to her cheek – she was too banged up for a hug – got in the car, and got moving. I told myself that I would follow up with her. Find a way to save her from her own insecurities, which Dace would exploit without hesitation.

I knew. I’d seen it.

In my memory, their faces were both haunted and hopeful, achingly fragile. Women I’d known at the shelter. Black, white, Asian, Chicano, it didn’t matter. They were all battered, abused, wounded in body and soul. Terrified. But still, too often, they convinced themselves that this time would be different. This time, he would be kind. Please, God, Kels. Don’t do it!!!

The rest of the day was a blur. Back to the hospital, where the old man slept on, unchanged. Doctor Chatterji had her letter waiting for me, and her formal assessment was even more negative than the one she had given me verbally the prior afternoon. From there, I found a Staples and got hard copies of all my documents, then a bank, where I was able to get my affidavit notarized. Once the application packet was complete I drove to the probate court, where I filed originals of all of the documents and got a filing stamp on my copies.

I called Gaby, hoping to talk to Abuela and fill her in.

“Sorry, Carmen,” she said, sounding distracted. “I dropped her off at the hospital half an hour ago. I’m helping Lupe at the daycare ’til six, then I’ll pick her up and drive her home.”

I ended the call and thought for a minute. The hospital was about five miles away from the courthouse, but it was close to the highway so it wasn’t really out of my way. With a sigh, I turned the Kia around and headed that direction.

It was probably 5:00 or so when I found myself back in Padre’s room.

Abuela sat in the chair by the bed, her head bent. She looked up as I approached, but said nothing.

“It’s all filed, Abuela.”

“And?”

“And, we’ll see. I’ll call them later in the week if I haven’t heard anything.”

“You are leaving then?”

“Yes. I’ll come back early Saturday, though.”

She was silent, still. As motionless as her son. Just as I was about to tell her I had to go, she said, “What do you see, when you look at him?”

“Well . . . I mean, his left hand is clenched, and the side of his face –”

She stopped me. “I know that. What do you see?”

My uneasy shrug went unnoticed. “A man.”

“That’s all? Just ‘a man?’ Not your Padre?”

There was no accusation in her tone and I realized the question had nothing to do with how I felt about Padre. It had nothing to do with me at all. “I’m sorry, Abuela. I look at him, and it could be anyone.”

“Do you think he is gone?” Her question was dry as the Mohave and her face leached of any expression.

“I don’t know. I only know I don’t see him there.”

She bowed her head. After a long moment she said, “Thin mole, to keep hope alive. But it will have to do.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I could only stand in silence, trying to read the thoughts that must be going through her head.

She reached a hand over to the bed and, after a moment, found Padre’s shoulder. Without turning her head, she said, “Go, and do what you must. We will be here.”

I said goodbye and left her at Padre’s side, holding on to whatever hope she had been able to find. Resolutely, I got in my Kia and headed south. South, where my job was. Where my friends were. Where I had a life.

Tonight, I would sleep in my own bed.

— To be continued

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.

 

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. After Carmen determines that Padre is uninsured, she discusses the need to appoint a conservator with Abuela. Abuela gets Carmen to agree to be the conservator, at least on a temporary basis, with the understanding that she will return to her home in Orange County and only come back to Buttonwillow when needed.

But Carmen’s troubles only mount. While in Buttonwillow, she stayed with her cousin Kelsey and Kelsey’s boyfriend Dace. But Dace propositions Carmen, which causes Kelsey to blow up. Carmen and her brother Joaquim (“Ximo”) break up a domestic violence incident which results in Dace being arrested and Kelsey going to the hospital, where she is treated from bruises and a broken rib. Carmen spends the night with Kelsey and helps her move to a friend’s house the next morning. Then she gets the paperwork filed for the conservatorship and starts driving home.

Chapter 12: Touchstones

My suburb-loving Kia practically breathed a sigh of relief as it crested the high point of the Tejon Pass and began the long descent through the dry canyons and bare hillsides of the Tehachapis.

So did I.

I’d only been gone a few days, but family, Buttonwillow, Kern – all of it – had almost effortlessly yanked me back in time and away from the better life I’d made for myself. I felt a desperate, aching desire to reconnect. People talk about the need to “go outside and touch grass”; in my case, I needed to touch something else. Something bigger. Harder to describe, more intangible, messier, and far more complicated. I needed to touch civilization.

Sometimes it feels like everyone loves to hate on Southern California. They make fun of “Valley Girls” and mock the endless suburb that occupies virtually all of the San Fernando Valley. They carp about LA traffic, crazy housing prices, homelessness, gangs. You name it. And sure, fair enough. It’s a huge place and it’s got problems to match. I barely survived my baptism by fire in urban LA, so I know the downside way better than people who have more opinions than experience. I still think all the haters should be rounded up and forced to spend a decade or two in Buttonwillow.

From the San Gabriels to the Mexican Border, Southern California is people. Anglos and Chicanos, Asians, Blacks, Slavs, Armenians – heaps of Armenians! – you name it. They come from everywhere, and they bring their languages, their foods, their feuds and their passions with them. It’s wild and dynamic and scary, and I love it.

It’s home.

It was so good to be back that I didn’t even mind hitting the heavier traffic as I descended through Sylmar, or the stop-and-go nonsense that inevitably slowed my progress once I passed Burbank. I was eager for home, and my roommates were waiting for me, but all of that traffic meant people, and all of those people, in a strange way, made me feel safe again. Anonymous. Just one of a wild, weird, patchwork of humanity.

The sun was just touching the Pacific as I passed Griffith Observatory, and even a hater can’t help loving that amazing view. My smile just got bigger with each mile I drove, until I was finally able to get off the freeway in Santa Ana and drive to my apartment.

I had barely gotten out of the car when I heard Katie’s excited “Carmen!!!!” and looked up to see her jumping up and down on our balcony. She bounded out of sight and tackled me before I even hit the door of our building.

I dropped my bag and held her like she was the human embodiment of sanctuary. I couldn’t help myself, even though I knew the comparison was absurd. Crazy, hard-charging, fun-loving Katie, a sanctuary? Any port in a storm!

“Told you so,” she scolded.

“Told me what?” My voice has no business shaking!

“Shoulda stayed home, girl. Nothin’ but rednecks up there.”

“Mexicans and Chicanos, mostly.”

“Fucking rednecks!”

That got me to laugh, which was just what I needed. I released my death-grip and gave her a smile. “Thanks, Katie. I can’t begin to tell you how good it is to be home!”

“Yeah, I think I got that part. C’mon. Let’s get you inside.”

Of course, when I saw Lourdes I just about lost it all over again. Our embrace was gentler; I always felt like I might break her, even though she was as sturdy as any of us, and quite capable of exuberance. But she is also one of the kindest people I know. “I missed you,” I said huskily.

She pulled back and pinched my cheek, smiling. “You’ve only been gone five days, Carmencita!”

“I know! But it feels like forever.”

“Well, come in and tell us about it. We’ve got dinner waiting.”

“Dinner? I hope you guys didn’t wait for me!”

Katie shook her head. “It’s not that late. Jeez, girl, this ain’t Buttonwillow!”

I laughed and moved to the kitchen. “Oh my God!” I exclaimed. “You guys are just the best! How did you know I needed sushi?”

They laughed, and we all squeezed around our small table, and soon the chopsticks were flying. They got me going, and the story was pouring out, broken with many exclamations and interruptions and scolding and talking over each other. Katie, as always, jumping in; Lourdes, more often holding back, saying less and listening more. By the time we were down to sipping Sapporo and nibbling on pickled ginger, I felt completely at home again.

“So,” Katie said after I wrapped up today’s happenings. “You go back Saturday?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I don’t think I’m going to need to do this every weekend, or even most weekends. If I need to be up there, it’ll probably be during court and business hours. But with everything so up in the air right now, I think I’d better.”

“But you will stay someplace safe this time, yes?” Lourdes gave me as stern a look as she could manage.

“The Motel 6, probably. It’s sixty bucks a night, and I sure wish I didn’t have to spend it. But it’ll do.”

“Dace, though,” she pressed. “He’ll be out by then, yes?”

“I assume so. I doubt the Court will make him post bail, though I expect he’ll get a ‘stay away’ order to keep him from Kelsey.” I thought for a moment then added, “Actually, he’s probably out already; he was supposed to be arraigned this morning. With all my running around today, I didn’t check.”

“It’s great he has to stay away from Kelsey,” Katie interjected. “But will the court keep him away from you?”

I shrugged. “I’m sorry. I should have asked about it, but I don’t know.”

Lourdes shared a look with Katie, then said, “From what you have said about this man . . . I think he will want to get back at you.”

“I’m sure he’d like to . . . but I’m also sure he’d like to stay out of jail. Anything happened to me up there, he’d be the first suspect.”

“Not the only one, though, given your crazy family,” Katie said sourly.

I chuckled. “You may have me there. Though honestly . . . they’ve been better than I thought they would be. Well . . . better than I feared, anyway. Aunt Maria was her usual nasty self, but the rest of the ones I talked to . . . .” My voice tapered off. That unsettled feeling was there again, pulling at me.

Katie made a rude noise, but Lourdes smiled slightly. “Perhaps you feared the end of the world?”

“I suppose I did.” I poured the last of my Sapporo into a glass and took a sip. “I mean . . . when I got kicked out, it kind of was the end of the world – the only one I’d known. And since I’d been rejected by Padre, Ximo, Uncle Fernando, and Abuela, I just assumed they all felt the same way.”

“Yeah, well . . . Just remember, that’s not your world now,” Katie growled. “Even if you’ve gotta pop in now and then to keep the rednecks from fucking everything up.”

“Chicanos!” I protested, futilely.

“Rednecks! And all the ones you didn’t run into are probably waiting in the tall grass. Fuckers.”

“Katie’s right about one thing, Carmen,” Lourdes said, gently redirecting the conversation. “It’s good that things are better with some of your family. That will make your work up there easier. But they can’t destroy you, like they did before. You have family here, too.”

“I know.” I extended my hands to each of them. “And I can’t tell you how much that means to me. Just knowing your two were here . . . I couldn’t have gotten through these last few days without that.”

We wrapped up shortly after that. Sushi, fortunately, does not require much clean-up, and my bed was calling to me. It was only a twin bed, the mattress sucked, and I’d intended to wash my sheets over the weekend when I’d gotten called away, but I didn’t care. It was my bed, in my apartment, which I shared with fantastic roommates.

It was heaven.

~o~O~o~

“The big difference,” I explained, “is the coverage. The premiums are about the same, though the deductibles are lower on the alternative plan. But if you look at the size of the network in your current plan, you’ll see that most of the services you’d need, almost all of the time, are in-network. The out-of-network costs on the alternative plan are higher, and the network is smaller.”

“Those new, higher, deductibles, though,” our client mused. “The employees aren’t going to like that.”

I found myself nodding, though he couldn’t see me over the phone line. “It may be worth asking your employees to check whether their primary medical services are covered by the alternative plan. Whether their PMP’s in the network, for instance, or if they have a specialist they go to regularly. With a plan your size, it’s worth checking.”

Back in the office, professionally dressed, I was doing my job and appreciating every minute. It wasn’t what I wanted to do for a career, but I was good at it and I enjoyed feeling competent and in control. Helping regular people, small business owners mostly, with normal health care coverage issues, without having to deal with any crazy emotional baggage.

Once I wrapped up with Kevin Carlisle, I checked my watch and decided I had time for a quick bathroom break before I was scheduled to meet with my boss. Dwayne had poked his head in my cube earlier to welcome me back, but he had to run to a meeting so we’d set a time to talk later.

I did my business quickly, then washed my hands and examined my reflection critically. I still looked a little worse for the wear after several nights with too little sleep –- not to mention, days with too much drama. But makeup is a wonderful invention, and provides women with a big advantage in situations like this. Guys have no clue what they are missing. I snorted as I imagined Kelsey’s response in my head: Guys have no clue, period.

While Lourdes could have done a better job with the concealer and foundation – she is a professional – my own efforts were good enough. It was time to stop stalling. I walked briskly to Dwayne’s office and wrapped on the open door at 10:30 precisely. “Good morning again,” I said brightly.

Dwayne is the sort of manager — the sort of person — who hates having people sit in front of his desk while he parks behind it. His computer table faces a side wall, so when people come in he just swivels his chair to connect to the conversation group in the other corner. “C’mon in, Carmen,” he said, waving me into a seat and rolling over to join me, coffee cup firmly in hand.

I smoothed my summer-weight ivory skirt under me and sat. Much as I liked Dwayne, I found myself defaulting to posture as formal as it had been the day I showed up for my first interview, almost ten years before, when I’d felt unqualified for even the receptionist/gofer position that was all they had available. Back straight, knees at ninety degree angles, ankles tightly crossed.

His eyes softened. “Relax, Carmen. It’s okay. You’re not in any kind of trouble — not with corporate, and sure as hell, not with me. You’ve got a family issue to deal with, that’s all. We’ll figure it out, okay?”

”Okay,” I said, responding with genuine warmth. “It means a lot to me.”

”So . . . Why don’t you give me the Cliff’s Notes version. How’s your father doing, and what are your next steps?”

I’d already thought about what Dwayne would need to know — and all the many things he very much wouldn’t need to know — so I didn’t hesitate. “Like I told you on the phone, he had a stroke last Friday when he was out in the fields, and it was a while before anyone found him. It’s been five days now, and he’s still in a coma. The doctors aren’t very optimistic. They figure he’ll be pretty impaired even if he does regain consciousness.”

He set his coffee cup down on the side table with a thump. “I am so very sorry to hear that. How old is he?”

“Only forty-nine.” I shrugged. “It’s a hard life, and he didn’t take care of himself very well.”

Something in my tone alerted him to the possibility that Padre and I hadn’t been close; Dwayne’s got an instinct for those things — and for finding ways to keep conversations professional. He made a smooth transition. “You mentioned having to get a conservatorship set up?”

I nodded. “Right. I filed the paperwork yesterday. My grandmother asked me to serve as the temporary conservator so I could get his insurance situation untangled as soon as possible, but I told her the family would need someone else to take over as the permanent conservator.”

He leaned back in his chair, thinking. “Yeah . . . I can see where that makes sense. I’ve had one or two clients over the years go through the process. You’ll need to go up for a hearing. Probably an interview, too, though they might do that by Zoom these days; I don’t know.”

”And that’s just to get appointed,” I agreed. “After that, I’ll need to deal with his banks and any retirement plans — that sort of thing. I’ll have to be physically present for at least some of it. But once my credentials are established, I should be able to do almost everything else remotely.”

”Good. I checked your records; it looks like you’ve got a PL day, three days of accrued vacation, and six days of sick leave left. It’s not a lot . . . But if you can try to ration the time you’re up there during the week to the days you absolutely have to be present, it’ll probably stretch longer than you think.”

Yeah, I thought glumly. Until I’m in crunch time at the end of next semester, and I desperately need a couple of free days to study! But I nodded anyway. “That’s what I was thinking, too. I’ll do unpaid FMLA leave if I need to, but I don’t have a lot of extra savings.”

”Understood. I wish there was something I could do about working remotely, but right now my hands are tied. It might be different by New Year’s, though. I just think corporate wants assurance that things are genuinely back to normal before they start to consider exceptions and hardship cases.”

There wasn’t really anything I could say to that. I knew it had been a struggle to get everyone back in the office, and I knew some people who absolutely abused the privilege of remote work. One of the disadvantages of working for a good-sized company is that they tend to have rules designed with the worst employees in mind.

”One thing we absolutely can do for you, Carmen,” he said, picking up his coffee cup again. “When you have the information you need about your father’s income and assets, Margaret can work with you on the State coverage application. She’s got a lot of experience with all of those programs.”

”That would be great!” Margaret was a lovely person, and extremely thorough. Having her help on the applications would make a huge difference.

”Good. That’s settled. Now, just give me as much notice as you can on when you need to be out of the office, and to the extent possible, try to avoid having to reschedule meetings with clients. They really get up my ass when we reschedule. Okay?”

”Yes, sir,” I said, smiling.

~o~O~o~

For two whole days, life was blissfully normal. No strange looks. No awkward questions. No one treated me like a freak, or an embarrassment. In this part of the world transwomen weren’t so rare as to be novel, and everyone knew people who were stranger than me. I mean, way stranger. It’s SoCal.

I settled back into being “me.”

Of course, it wouldn’t last. Friday morning, deep in a research project for an accounting firm, I received a call from “Flanders and Soto” on my cell phone. Since the number had a 661 area code, I decided I had better answer it.

“Good morning, Carmen Morales speaking.”

A man with an extremely smooth baritone voice replied. “Ms. Morales? Good morning. My name is Andar Kasparian. I’m calling about the conservatorship petition you filed on Wednesday.”

“Yes?”

“Based on your representations concerning your father’s condition, the Probate Court determined that your petition qualified for expedited treatment. Are you familiar with the process?”

“In general terms,” I replied. “Have you been appointed to investigate the claims in the petition?” Given that the call hadn’t come from the Court itself, it seemed like the safest assumption.

“Ah! You are familiar with how this works! That should make things quicker. Yes, I received the appointment this morning. Do you have access to the online docket?”

Oops! “I haven’t got that set up yet,” I confessed. “But I should be able to take care of it later today.”

“No problem. For now, I can send a copy of the Court’s order to the email you provided in the application.”

“Thank you, that would be great,” I replied.

“Now, I am required to attempt to speak with the proposed conservatee. I understand he wasn’t conscious at the time you filed the petition. Has that changed?”

“I’m afraid not. At least, it hadn’t as of the end of the day yesterday, and the hospital should have informed me of anything significant since then.”

“I am very sorry to hear that.” He sounded genuine, though it was possible he’d just had a lot of experience with this kind of work. “I will need to visit the hospital personally, however. If he is conscious, I’m required to speak with him alone, though obviously if he isn’t, I can be accompanied by you or another member of the family.”

It seemed a little weird to have some stranger wander in and give Padre a once-over. Not that he would notice, and complete strangers from the hospital staff were popping in at all hours. Still, I thought Abuela might prefer someone to be with him. “What time were you thinking of going?”

“I’m pretty tied up for the rest of the day, so I was figuring I’d go Monday morning. Do you want to have someone there?”

“Yes, probably,” I said, a bit apologetically. I didn’t want him to think we didn’t trust him, after all. “It shouldn’t be difficult to arrange; we have a lot of family in the area.”

“Yes, I saw that from your list of family members in the first and second degree,” he said, sounding amused. “That said, apart from your father, the first person I need to interview will be you, as the proposed conservator. If you were available Monday, we could do your interview after visiting your father.”

“Oh! Well, of course, though . . . I had hoped that perhaps you might be able to interview me over the telephone, or by Zoom.”

“I see you aren’t local.” He sounded guarded. “Honestly, for a variety of reasons, I prefer to conduct these interviews in person if at all possible. Especially for the proposed conservator. And I’ll have to include information about how the interview was conducted in my report to the Judge.”

My heart sank. Dammit! “Let me just check my work schedule,” I said, as I pulled up my calendar. I had plenty of work to get done, but I didn’t have any scheduled client meetings. There was no reason I couldn’t extend my weekend trip an extra day. Other than the extra cost of the hotel, and the loss of my last PL day for the year, I thought sourly.

But of course, I didn’t say any of that. “I don’t have any meetings scheduled for Monday, Mr. Kasparian, so, yes, I can be there.”

“Thank you,” he said, his voice warm again. “I appreciate your flexibility on such short notice. It really will help to move things along quickly, and I know that’s important to you.”

We set a time to meet and ended the call, after which I hunted down Dwayne and told him I would need to be out on Monday. Fortunately, he didn’t have any issue with it. When I had a few minutes at lunch time, I did a little research on the Flanders and Soto firm and on Mr. Kasparian, so I would recognize him on Monday. I didn’t like walking into meetings cold.

Lourdes asked me about him when we had dinner together at the end of the day. Katie had left us to our own devices, full of apologies. But she had a date with someone she’d been practically stalking, and I insisted she not throw away her shot just because I was going to be gone again for a whole three days.

“So, what did you think of this investigator?”

“He’s younger than I would have thought – graduated from Southwestern Law back in ‘16, so he’s probably early/mid thirties. But he’s got a fair bit of experience – looks like he’s done the investigations for over a hundred conservator and guardian petitions.”

“He has experience. Good.” She nodded approvingly. “But what did you think of him?”

“Seemed nice enough. Polite, anyhow.”

“Armenian?”

I snorted. “With that name? Oh, yeah.”

She nodded, then smiled. “Handsome men, Armenians.”

“Lourdes!” I laughed. “You’re as bad as Katie!”

“Now who’s being silly,” she teased, her smile just getting bigger. “No one is as bad as Katie!”

We cleaned up from dinner and she followed me into my room while I started packing – something I intended to do much more carefully than I had the prior week! But it felt like even the stupidest decisions were giving me trouble. Which shoes to bring. Whether to include an extra pair of dress pants.

After watching my indecision over a lightweight three-quarter sleeve blouse, Lourdes said, “what’s bothering you, Carmencita?”

“I don’t know,” I sighed. “Mostly, I just don’t want to go back. I feel so at home here. By the end of the day Wednesday, it almost felt like the whole Buttonwillow trip was some crazy dream. This is what’s real.”

“We aren’t going anywhere,” she said, reasonably. “Your life will still be here.”

“Thank God! But . . . when I’m up there, it’s harder to keep it all at a distance, you know what I mean?”

She sat on my bed, and patted the spot beside her. “Tell me.”

I tucked a leg under my butt and sat, trying to put it into words. “I’ve spent a lot of years, just trying to get on my feet, you know? To be able to look out for myself.”

She nodded, but said nothing. Instead, she reached out a hand and slowly rubbed my back, letting me know I should take my time.

“Anyhow . . . when I’m up there, it’s hard to hold on to the person I’ve become. To escape who I was. It’s hard to think of myself as ‘normal,’ when everyone around me thinks I’ve got three heads or something. I’ll be doing something, or talking to someone, and suddenly I’m strangling on old memories. Fighting old battles. Here, I feel safe.”

She thought about that for a moment before venturing a reply. “When your Abuela called last week, you didn’t hesitate to go. Why are you more afraid now? The other night, you said they mostly weren’t as bad as you thought they’d be.”

I didn’t have a good answer to that, and her question dogged me the rest of the evening. I worried it over as I brushed my teeth and moisturized, and I wrestled with it as I curled into my bed. It wasn’t until I was on the verge of sleep that the answer came to me. It had been staring me in the face since my last conversation with Ximo.

When I left for Buttonwillow a week ago, I thought they’d all rejected me, except Kelsey. That they hated me. I’d come to terms with that years before, and they were just figures from my past. Now, though . . . Kels, Innie, Ximo, Uncle Augi, even Abuela . . . they were making me care again.

No wonder I’m afraid.

~o~O~o~

I woke early — much earlier than I had planned. Bad dreams, though I couldn’t remember them at all. Still, there was no way I could go back to sleep, so I decided to make the best of it. Lourdes was still sleeping; Katie had apparently scored. Her bed was made and she hadn’t slept in it.

I wanted nothing more than to spend the day at home, relaxing, maybe hearing about Katie’s escapades when — as she inevitably would — she returned home with a tall tale and a sleepy, satisfied smile. I toyed with the idea of at least staying long enough to have a nice breakfast with Lourdes.

But I knew I was stalling. If I waited until Lourdes was up, I’d find excuses to delay the day away. I made myself some coffee, toasted an English Muffin, and left the house just after sunrise.

Traffic at 6:00 on a Saturday morning is practically a dream, so I made good time. I quickly passed by Disneyland and continued up the I-5. But close to Norwalk, my eye caught the sign for State Highway 42 and something clicked in my brain. I knew what had gotten me up so early.

I had another stop to make — one that I’d been putting off. I heard her voice, as clear as if she were sitting right beside me in the passenger seat. It’s time, child.

I took the exit.

Twenty minutes later, as I got close to my destination, my heart began to pound in my chest and I had to pull into the parking lot of a local KFC. The memory would not be denied.

“Carmen?” Dawn poked her head into the communal kitchen of the women’s shelter we both called home, where she found me furiously scrubbing non-existent dirt from the enameled cast iron sink. “Carmen?”

My shoulders slumped. “Yeah.”

“Sister C wants to see you. She’s out back.”

I nodded without looking up. “’kay.”

Her footsteps receded and I leaned on the countertop, feeling unsteady, squeezing my eyes shut. Trying to find my courage. Trying to find a reason to even keep going. I knew what was coming.

But I couldn’t put it off. I gave the sink a last, futile wipe, carefully placed the sponge by the faucet, and headed for the enclosed open space at the rear of the building.

My feet slowed as I reached the small vegetable garden, a tiny bit of soil in an urban wasteland. I slowed some more, like I was trying to test Zeno’s Paradox. I could never actually arrive, because I’d have to get half way first, then half way from that point to where she knelt in the dirt. And half more, and half again, into infinity. My life would run its course, maybe, and I would never have to face her.

Just a plain, sturdy woman, sensibly dressed in well-worn jeans and a faded work shirt, holding a weeding tool in her calloused hand. The woman who had taken me in when I nearly collapsed at her door, exhausted, famished, wearing stolen clothes that hung limp on my wasted frame. She had saved me; now, I knew, she would have to be my judge.

She didn’t look up. After a moment, I knelt across from her, a row of young tomato plants between us.

She worked the tool into the hard earth beneath the low succulent weed, her other hand applying gentle upward pressure to the stem. Slowly, she managed to loosen the grip of the plant’s delicate root system, and she pulled it out of the ground in a smooth, practiced motion that left it almost intact. “They told me,” she said as she placed the uprooted weed onto the small pile she’d gathered.

My voice was barely audible. “Sí, Sister.”

Her tool found its way back into the ground, having targeted another weed for elimination. “You can’t stay. You know that.”

It was what I had expected. What I had been dreading, ever since Fatima had seen me in the bathroom that morning, her sad, tired eyes reflecting the shock and horror I remembered so well from the dark day Uncle Fernando had caught me. The day my world had ended.

The garden dissolved into the blur of my tears. “Please, Sister!” I choked out. “Please! You know how hard I work! I cook, I clean, I help with the books, and in the garden. I fix things. I . . . .” I ran out of words. I could think of no way to demonstrate that I was worthy of a place here. A place at her side.

“Child, I know that.” Her voice held heartbreak that might even have matched my own. “But by now all the women know they were deceived.”

I looked toward her with eyes that couldn’t see, but could still plead. “I wasn’t lying! Really! I know I look different, but I AM a woman! I’ve always been a woman!”

“I believe you. I don’t understand it, and I’m sure the Order wouldn’t understand it. But I’ve known you for a year now. I’ve seen you come back from horrible darkness. I have held you when you wept. I love you like you are my own child. . . . And I know that my child is a daughter.”

I could hear the tears in her voice, echoing my own. But she wasn’t finished, and I knew she wasn’t. I knew what she would say. What she would have to say.

“It doesn’t change anything, Carmen. I can deal with the Order; it’s not like they check in on my work here. Never mind about the rules. But what would you have me say to Alicia? Or Shawna? Or Sunhee? They have been traumatized. Raped. They come here, looking for a safe space. Safe from men. I can’t ask this of them, or of the ones who will come, when they have moved on.”

I bowed my head. “I can’t go back. I can’t.” My throat was raw, tight, and my voice barely rose above a whisper. “I almost died.”

“No, you can’t go back,” she agreed. “But you can’t stay, so . . . you have to go forward.”

“Forward.” I repeated the word without emotion, as if it had no meaning. I couldn’t imagine a “forward.”

Gently, even tenderly, she said, “It’s time, child. Your body is healed, and we have done for your spirit all that we can do. This house can never be more than a temporary refuge.”

“I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“You have helped me long enough to know I don’t throw women back on the street,” she chided. “I have a friend, down in Irvine. A bed in a group home, for now. And work.”

“Work?”

“An opportunity, at least. My friend can get you an interview. Nothing you can’t handle.”

Just thinking about leaving the shelter caused me to shake, a hard tremor that started in my extremities and migrated quickly to my core. “Sister . . . I’m scared!”

She stood and stepped across the flower bed, looming over me. I had to blink back tears so I could see her clearly, her palms extended. I placed my hands in hers.

She raised me up, as she had so often before. “I know. I know. But you have to learn to trust yourself again. You’re stronger than you believe. Much stronger.”

Two hours later I was on a bus. I could still feel her dry kiss on my forehead, and hear her final benediction. “Ve con Dios . . . amada hija.”

Now, alone in my Kia in a fast food parking lot, I felt myself trembling again, like the aftershock that follows an earthquake. It took a few minutes of steady, deep breathing to regain my equilibrium enough to drive. Once I resumed my trip, though, it didn’t take long before I could smell the Pacific, invisible behind a slowly swirling bank of morning mist. Then, I was there.

I parked my car and walked across the manicured lawn, my footprints clear in the saturated grass. As always, I knew just where to find her, even if I had never been able to bring myself to come.

From the tall Holly Oak, a knight’s move. One row up, two over.

I hadn’t known about the inscription from 2 Timothy, so perfect that it caused my heart to lurch. The English translation was even more apt; every day she’d “poured herself out like a libation” for women who broke her heart, time and time and time again. Going back to the abusers. Going back to the drugs. She’d never stopped trying. Never stopped loving. Never — never once — been afraid to care.

I knelt by the stone, as I had so often knelt beside her, on late afternoons when she had taken time from the thousand things she had to do to keep the shelter running. Time she had spent weeding the garden. Finding stillness and quiet, even if only for a few minutes.

She had been one of the first, when COVID swept through Los Angeles. Not surprising, of course. Social distancing wasn’t so easy, when you’re running a shelter in the poorest part of a major city. And she would have been the last person on earth to give a thought to her own safety, when those in her care were suffering. It just wasn’t in her.

It had been months before I’d heard the news. Even after the worst had passed, even after the vaccines, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to come. I couldn’t imagine her this way.

“Estoy aquí, madre de mi corazon. I’m here.” The coastal fog muffled my voice; the words sounded dull and heavy, like moist soil hitting a casket. “I came. Even if I came too late.”

I recognized the weed by the base of the stone – the sort whose firm roots go down rather than out, burrowing deep into the soil. Down toward the place where she slept, and would always sleep. I reached out, curling my index finger around the stem, pressing my thumb, gently but firmly. With the ground softened by ocean mists, a slow, easy pull would do it.

My hand fell to my side. Not today.

I wasn’t much for saying prayers; my experience on the streets had burned all that out of me. But Sister Catalina had taught me a different way to pray. It’s time, child.

Indeed it was.

— To be continued

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.

 

Carmen Morales is a twenty-nine-year-old transwoman who works for an insurance broker in Orange County while attending law school at night. She and her two roommates are celebrating the successful conclusion of her spring semester when 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. Her father has had a stroke and is in a coma. She spends several days there and reconnects with some members of her extended family – Abuela, her brother Joachim (“Ximo”), her uncle Augustin, her senior aunt Maria, and some of her cousins – Kelsey, Inés, Guadalupe, and Gabriella. None of the interactions are free of strain, but she succeeds in coming to terms with Ximo, Kels and Innie. And even, to a certain degree, with Abuela herself. Abuela convinces a very reluctant Carmen to apply to be temporary conservator for her father.

In Chapter 12, Carmen returns to Orange Country for three days to avoid taking too much time off from her job. Her roommates welcome her warmly, her boss is understanding. She quickly feels right at home and does not want to return to Buttonwillow. She is afraid she might start to care for the family that had rejected her. On the drive back, however, she stops by the gravesite of the woman who had rescued her from the streets of Los Angeles after she’d been homeless for a year – a woman who had never been afraid of caring.

Chapter 13: The Teacher

A minor accident on the Grapevine caused a forty-five minute delay in my journey – and a bit of worry in terms of the state of my gas tank. Fortunately, the gradient on the way down is so consistent that I was basically able to coast most of the rest of the way.

At Wheeler Ridge I switched from the Interstate to old U.S. Highway 99, having decided to get my stop at the hospital out of the way first. As far as I knew, there hadn’t been any changes in Padre’s condition, but I wanted the opportunity to get an in-person update. Since I was running on fumes – which really wasn’t like me – I got off at White Lane, coasting down the offramp into the waiting arms of a most-welcome gas station.

A bit after eleven I arrived at the hospital. I didn’t recognize the woman who was holding down the desk at the nurse’s station, so I identified myself and asked if there had been any change in Padre’s condition.

“I’m sorry, Hon,” she said sympathetically. “He’s still stable, but he hasn’t regained consciousness.” She checked something on the monitor on her desk and added, “Doctor Chatterji will be in at 1:30; I’m sure she could give you a more complete update.”

I thanked her and turned to go when she said, “Oh, there’s a gentleman visiting. He’s been there an hour or so, though, so I doubt he’ll stay much longer.”

I assumed it was one of the Tio’s, though all but one of them would laugh at being called “gentlemen.” Probably either Uncle Angle and Uncle Augustin, since they both work during the week, and Saturday would be a logical time to pay respects. Uncle Fernando — Kelsey’s Papi — was still in prison, and I knew Tio Javier didn’t get out much. He’d been wheelchair-bound since he’d lost almost his entire left leg in a freak accident with a harvester twenty years before.

While I was eager to see Uncle Augi again, I was less wild about bumping into my senior uncle, who was always a bit too much under Aunt Maria’s thumb. My encounter with her the prior week demonstrated that her judgmental streak had only grown more pronounced with age.

As I approached Padre’s room, I heard a man’s voice, low but clear; it sounded like someone reading out loud rather than conversing. “While Engels thus expected that the Left’s enemies would launch a preemptive attack, he could not imagine in 1895 that this might win mass approval.” The material was dry, but the voice was warm, animated, cultured . . . and unmistakable.

That’s not one of the Tio’s! I didn’t even need to see the eagle’s beak of a nose under his scholarly glasses. Without thinking how it might sound, I blurted out, “What are you doing here?”

He looked up, startled, and snapped his book closed as he rose. “Excuse me, young lady. I am –”

“Señor Olivares y Cortez.” He’d permitted the shorter form in the classroom, but the full formal address seemed more appropriate to the moment, somehow. “I know. I remember.”

He blinked in surprise, then smiled. “Someone has not forgotten her lessons! But, I fear you have me at a disadvantage. When I see former students outside of school, I sometimes struggle to . . . .”

He stuttered to a stop and his eyes widened. When he finally spoke again, his voice was reduced to the barest breath. “No.”

I felt a flash of impatience – and of anger. My own smile fell and I stiffened. “As a matter of fact, yes. Very much ‘yes.’ My name is Carmen Morales, now. And if I may repeat my question, what are you doing here?”

“Madre de Dios!” He shook his head slowly, like someone who’s been stunned. “I thought you were lost!” Coming out of his stupor, he took four steps forward and pulled me into a hug – somewhat awkward, since one of his hands still held a weighty hard-bound book.

I was stunned myself; Señor Cortez had never been physically demonstrative. I hadn’t decided on a response before he pulled back.

“Forgive me,” he apologized. “You are here to see your padre, and I am interfering. But you must know I was extremely concerned when you disappeared. I asked your younger brother about it, but he simply said you were gone and would give no details.”

My anger vanished as quickly as a startled desert iguana. Grabbing his free hand in both of mine, I pressed it and said, “Please . . . you aren’t interfering at all. I’m delighted to see you. I just didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Well, Juan was one of my first students. Not to mention . . . .” Again he stopped, seeing my own look of surprise. “You knew this, surely?”

I shook my head and gave a wry smile. “Since neither of you ever saw fit to mention it to me, no!”

“For me, in a classroom setting, it would have been improper. But I would have thought . . . .” Again, his voice tapered off.

“Eventually,” I observed, “You’re going to have to start finishing your sentences.”

He sighed. “I should have known he would say nothing. Juan and I did not part on good terms.”

“We’ve got that in common,” I said dryly. “Let me check on him. If you have a few moments, I would really love to catch up.”

“Nothing would make me happier.” His response was formal – almost courtly. “Take as long as you like; I will be in the waiting room.”

I couldn’t resist teasing him. “I see you brought some light reading material.”

“But of course.” He held up the cover – Anatomy of Fascism. “I recommend it, Ms. Morales.”

“Let me guess – It’s going to be on the test.”

His smile was grim, and even that did not reach his dark eyes. “I fear it’s likely to be the test.”

On that note, he left.

I needed a little space to process Señor Cortez’ surprising appearance, and I expected he needed a few minutes to process mine. I’d apparently done the equivalent of coming back from the dead, as a female no less; he just looked a bit older and even more distinguished.

To give us both time, I didn’t rush my examination of Padre. The man in the bed looked little different than he had when I had seen him Tuesday evening. Maybe the flesh around his neck and on his forearms looked a bit more drawn, but it was difficult to tell.

“I’m here,” I decided to inform him. “Did you miss me?

No response, naturally.

I sat in the chair that Señor Cortez had vacated. I’d admired him tremendously, and It felt good – actually, extremely good – to know he’d noticed my disappearance and been concerned enough to ask my brother about it. He couldn’t have known that Ximo, an insecure 14-year-old at the time, would be the absolute last person to tell him what had actually happened to me.

“Well, apart from you, I suppose,” I said to my unresponsive father.

I sat with that for a moment, then decided, with a snort, that I was being stupid. My many issues with Padre weren’t going to be resolved by making snarky comments at his bedside while he was comatose. “But if you wake up, old man,” I growled, “you and I are going to talk.”

I went to meet my old teacher, and was unsurprised to find him deep in contemplation of the book he had been reading to Padre when I came in.

He rose gracefully and again shut the book, this time more gently. “So . . . ‘Carmen?’ That’s a lovely name. But of course I’m biased; my father was born in Seville!”

“I remember,” I replied, smiling. “You shared that with us, when you played bits from the opera as part of one of your lectures.”

“Ah, very good! ‘The rise of the proletarian consciousness and aesthetic in Nineteenth Century Europe.’” He looked pleased that I had recalled the lesson. “I had to drop that section a few years later; the administration made me cut out material that wasn’t on the standardized tests.”

“Are you still teaching?”

“To tell you true, after this last year I’m on the fence. But that’s a long tale, and I’d like to hear yours first.” He gave me a shrewd look. “I’m guessing you are only back for a visit?”

“I’m afraid that’s true.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re pressed for time, but . . . a body must eat. Can I persuade you to join me for lunch?”

I nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! I’d love that. I need to be back here at 1:30 or so to catch up with Padre’s doctor. That gives us a bit of time.”

“What kinds of food do you like?”

“I’m not picky – but all I remember of Bakersfield were the chains!”

“Ah . . . I think we can do better than that.” His eyes gleamed. “Do you trust me?”

I laughed, and somehow felt inspired to crook an elbow, like a fine lady in a period drama. “Lead on, sir!”

He took it without an instant’s hesitation and guided me out into the sunlight.

A few minutes later, we were seated in wicker-and-iron cafe chairs in a cool, darkened bistro. “I highly recommend the Cuban Sandwich,” he suggested. “Not to say there aren’t other wonderful things on the menu, but I can never resist it when I come in.”

We ordered two. I decided to stick with water, and he did the same. Once the waiter bustled off, Señor Cortez leaned back and gave me a long look. “I have known your family for three decades. Your padre was one of my first students – and, in all my years of teaching, probably my best.” He grinned and waggled a finger at me. “Yes – even better than you, though you gave him a run for his money.”

“He was? I did?” I shook my head. “This just isn’t how the world ever felt, to me!”

“Not surprising. At that age, you could have no perspective.” His hand fluttered, dismissing the issue. “But the point I wished to make was different. I knew your father, and of course, when I was teaching him, I met Mamá Santiago, your formidable abuela. I’ve taught your brother, and your cousins, and met most of your aunts and uncles. And on top of all of that, I have spent half my life in Kern County. Seeing you now, I think I know why you left – and why young Joaquim would not tell me anything.”

I lowered my eyes. “Yes.”

“I am sorry. Our community is not kind to people who don’t fit the mold; it is both the flip side and the downside of being ‘tight-knit.’ It must have been very hard for you.”

I decided I didn’t want to go into that, so I smiled instead. “You were one of the bright spots. I loved your classes.”

His eyes crinkled, suggesting that he saw through my efforts to turn the conversation toward less painful subjects. Still, like a gentleman, he played along. “I am glad. So, then. Tell me where you went, after leaving Kern County behind you? What are you doing with yourself?”

“I spent a couple years in LA trying to get my feet under me.” That’s one way to put it! “Then I caught a lucky break, moved down to Orange County, and started working for an insurance broker. I’m still there. But I did night school for six years and got my BA, and now I’m in law school at Western State.”

“Excellent! Outstanding!” He positively beamed. “Please tell me you took your degree in history?”

I shook my head, fondly. “I’m afraid not . . . though I did take a couple of courses. I have had to be more practical.”

“Business, then.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“And now, law? An abogada? I admire your ambition.”

“Remember, in U.S. History, when we were learning about the whole mythology around the ‘Lost Cause,’ and you showed us clips from Gone With the Wind?”

“Of course. Another segment I’ve had to drop.”

“I honestly hated the movie, but there’s a scene that stuck with me.”

He nodded with immediate understanding. “As God is my witness?”

“Right. I’ve known that feeling. When I left LA, I made the same vow. I won’t go hungry. Never again. And I’ll stand on my own feet.”

He laid a hand on top of mine and squeezed gently. “You have left many details out of your story. I assume you have good reason to, and I won’t pry. What’s important is, are you in a good place now? And, are you happy?”

“I am. It’s taken me a lot of effort to get there, but . . . really. I can’t complain. And, being back here again, I’m starting to realize how much I have to be thankful for.”

“Is this the first time you’ve been back?”

“Yes. Not much has changed . . . but it feels even less alive, somehow.”

“A creek may seem lively, to a fish that has never been in a river. Though in this case, I think your perception would be correct, even if you hadn’t returned with more experiences. The rural areas have been losing population, even though Bakersfield hasn’t. That always takes a toll. And it may get much worse, soon.”

“Worse?”

An aristocratic eyebrow lifted, part inquiry, part disappointment. “You have been following the news, yes?”

I must have looked puzzled; he shook his head in dismay. “How many of your classmates were born in Mexico?”

“I don’t know – maybe a third, I’d guess.”

He nodded. “That sounds about right – then and now, though we’ve gotten more from Central and South America, the last few years. For many of my students, this is the only home they’ve ever known, but they weren’t born here and they aren’t citizens. The mood in the country is turning more and more hostile to migrant workers and their families. It’s all over the news, and in the current election campaign. Think about what that means, for places like Buttonwillow, Taft, or Wasco.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, finding it hard to meet his eyes. “I was reminded, just this morning, that I’ve been focused on my own problems for too long.”

“Do not fault yourself for this! And do not imagine I am finding fault, either. You have traveled a hard road. Still . . . you need to be aware of what is happening around you, Carmen, and not simply from altruism. Migrants aren’t the only ones being targeted in this country.”

“I know there’s been a lot of attacks on the trans community.” I raised my hands, a gesture of helplessness. “Not much I can do about it. Fortunately, I live in a big city in a blue state. I got all my paperwork changed a couple years ago.”

Just then, the waiter arrived with the food. Señor Cortez had been right about the Cuban sandwich – perfectly toasted; the swiss cheese at just the right stage of melting, the ham, pork, and pickle blending beautifully. “Wow! When I think of Bakersfield – which is just as seldom as I possibly can – I think of Jack in the Box. In-’n-Out, if you’re going fancy. This is amazing!”

His teeth gleamed. “When you were a child, you thought like a child, reasoned like a child . . . and ate like a child! Places like this were here, even then. But you didn’t know to look for them.”

“I sure didn’t!”

He took another bite, savoring it properly, swallowed neatly, and washed it down with water. “People have to get away, sometimes, to find new things. Experience the richness of their own culture. But often, you can find it close to home if you look hard enough. I tried to show that to your padre, when you were a baby.”

“When I was a baby? So, you didn’t part on bad terms because you gave him a ‘B’ or something?”

“Scarcely! I started teaching in 1990. I was all of 24, if you can believe it. And your padre was my star pupil.”

He smiled, remembering. “He ruined me, you know. I thought that’s what teaching would be like – bright, driven students, eager to learn! Later, I thought, well, I’ll have at least a few every year. Now? I’m at the end of my career, or close to it. I can think of maybe ten students that really profited from what I was trying to teach them.”

I thought of the other chavos who’d taken his classes with me, including Kels and Innie and Lupe. None of them had understood why I enjoyed it so much; they’d thought it was torture. “I guess I can see that.”

“Well, by the time Juan graduated, I knew just how rare a jewel he was. I spoke with Mamá Santiago, and worked with them both to make sure that he got into college. When he was accepted at U.C. Riverside and was awarded a decent scholarship, I was delighted. Even a little proud, I suppose, which was very wrong of me.”

I was trying hard not to be too bothered by the fact that I hadn’t gotten similar treatment. Wasn’t I a star pupil, too? But I didn’t want to interrupt the flow, so I kept that thought to myself.

“I bumped into him one morning when I was filling my gas tank. It must have been close to two years after graduation. April, now that I think about it, because I remember they were planting the cotton. He told me that he was back, living at Mamá Santiago’s house with the mother of his child, and working in the fields.”

I thought I could see where he was going. “That must have been a disappointment for you.”

“A surprise, certainly.” He took another bite and considered his words. “More, though, I was concerned. Worried, even. He seemed like a different person altogether. Harried, frustrated, beaten down. All of that, and more. My heart ached, to see him so. I invited him to join my wife and I for dinner. At first he begged off — I think he was embarrassed. But I persisted, which was probably a mistake. They came.”

“Wait . . . you met my mother, too?”

“I did.” He sighed. “Not an easy woman to forget, your mother. Beautiful, graceful, vibrant . . . positively starved for intelligent conversation. Juan should have been able to provide it. God knows, the Juan I remembered would have been happy to. But the more she talked, the more she blossomed . . . and the more she blossomed, the less Juan spoke.”

I tried to keep my expression neutral, tamping down on the voice ringing in my head, echoing through the years. “Nothing’s wrong. Just be good to your brother, okay? Take care of him.”

He finished the last bite of his sandwich and caught the waiter’s eye.

“Sí, Señor?”

“Un café cubano por favor,” he responded, then looked to me. “It’s excellent. Would you like one?”

“Yes, please.”

“Para dos. Gracias, Señor Lopez.” he said to the waiter.

“You’re stalling,” I said with a slight smile, as the waiter departed. “I only know, because I do the same thing myself.”

“You are perceptive.” He inclined his head. “It is here that I made my mistake. I tried to help, and I had no idea what I was doing. Yolanda and I used to get together with friends to explore some of the culture in our area. Maybe go to a museum, or take a trip to the Mission at San Luis Obispo, or just hear some music. Some dinners, with good conversation. That sort of thing. We started inviting your parents to join us.”

“And that made the problem worse?”

“Yes. It became very clear, after just a few outings, that Juan could not bear to see Kathy speak with other men. He so insulted one of my friends that Trevor told me he and his fiancée would not join our group again if Juan were invited. When I spoke to Juan privately, he exploded. Accused me of pursuing his wife!”

He shook his head, still offended by the accusation after the passage of almost thirty years. “I am afraid my response was intemperate, and I assumed I would not see or hear from him again. But he showed up at my door one night, just a few months later, drunk as an Englishman, claiming Kathy was there and demanding to search the house. Yolanda was terrified and I was furious. I told him I would call the police if he ever stepped on my property again, and I slammed the door in his face.”

The waiter brought the two coffees and Señor Cortez broke his story to take a sip, smile, and tell the man that it was perfect, as always. The two clearly knew each other well, though their interactions had all the formality of destreza sparring.

It gave me an opportunity to process what he had told me. At a guess, the final incident coincided with the first time my mother had left Buttonwillow — when Uncle Fernando and Uncle Augustin had gone up to the Bay Area to convince her to return.

I was lost in my thoughts, and looked up to see him watching me with sad eyes. “I am sorry. As I said, a mistake. All I had succeeded in doing was inflaming jealousies that were already consuming your father like piranha.” With a slight smile, he added, “Do drink your coffee; I should hate to bring you only grief.”

Obediently, I lifted the delicate cup and took a sip, only to find my eyes popping in surprise. “Wow . . . this is extraordinary!”

“It is, that. Anyhow . . . that’s why your padre and I did not part on good terms — and, to be honest, why I kept my distance, and never said anything to you about having known your parents. It was not a pleasant memory, and I had no wish to stir up old ghosts.”

I took another sip of coffee, and considered everything he’d told me. “I don’t remember a time my parents were together, when they weren’t fighting. It’s hard for me to imagine them being in love.”

He was quiet, sipping his coffee. Eventually it became clear that he wouldn’t respond. I wondered whether to press and had almost decided not to, when he said, “You have a question.”

“I do?”

“Avoid playing games of chance for money, young lady.” His eyes twinkled. “Yes. You have a question. So, ask it.”

“Did my parents love each other? Or was it all just some colossal mistake?”

“There is no doubt in my mind that your padre loved your mother. Maybe too much. Like Othello, he loved ‘not wisely, but too well.’ There was a song I remember, from when I was young. ‘When you’re in love with a beautiful woman . . . you watch your friends.’ I always thought it was a sad song. Tragic. He was like that.”

I set my cup down carefully. Precisely. “I notice you only answered half the question.”

He raised his own cup and sipped, his eyes never leaving mine. Finally, he said, “Correct. I don’t know the answer, honestly. But . . . Yolanda has always been wise about such things. She thought the answer was ‘no.’”

“So, you think Padre loved my mother, but she didn’t love him?”

He nodded sadly. “Yes. And it destroyed him.”

We left shortly after that, wending our way back to the hospital. As we got close, I asked how he’d learned Padre was ill.

He wagged a finger at me playfully. “You have been away too long. You know how word gets around. One of our younger teachers is the daughter of one of the men who works with your father. Et cetera, et cetera.”

“You’re right. I don’t know if you remember my cousin Inés; she described it as being like crows jabbering on a power line.”

“Exactly. A charming metaphor from – forgive me! – a fierce and fiery young woman.”

I chuckled at his dead-accurate description of Innie, then got back to the question I wanted to ask. “After all this time, and everything that happened, when you heard the news, you decided to come and read to him . . . about fascism?”

“It’s just what I happened to have with me. And I don’t suppose the subject matters. I read that some patients in comas are aware of their surroundings to at least some degree. Had I been lying in a bed for a few days, I imagine I wouldn’t be picky about the entertainment.”

“But you came. That’s the important part.”

He took my elbow again, rather gallantly steering me around a pile of dog shit I was just about to blindly step in, before replying. “I did. He was something special, Carmen, or at least, he could have been. If he had realized some of that potential, scores of people, maybe hundreds, or even thousands, might weep to hear of his condition. As it is?” He shook his head, sadly. “As it is, I may be the only one. Someone should.”

I bowed my head, abashed that his generosity of spirit was so much greater than mine, where my own father was concerned. “You shouldn’t stop teaching,” I said after we had walked a little farther. “The world needs teachers like you.”

He squeezed my captive elbow. “The world may need them,” he said lightly, “But I am not convinced that the state of California wants them. Besides, I have my avocation to fall back on!”

He let me go so I could go through the revolving doors, then followed.

“Your avocation?” I asked, as he joined me in the main lobby.

“Spanish guitar, of course. What else?”

“I didn’t know you played!”

“Teaching, the occasion did not arise. But yes, I have played for many years. I even have a regular ‘gig’ here in town.” He smiled. “You should come.”

“I’d like that,” I said . . . and was surprised to find that I meant it.

We exchanged contact information, and he told me where and when he was playing. Then he said, “I will leave you here; I know you have much to do. I can’t tell you how delighted I am, to find that you are well, and flourishing.”

“Thank you for lunch. I promise, I will absolutely come and see you play!” Greatly daring, I kissed his cheek, and watched him depart.

“My, my, my,” I murmured, as he disappeared from view. “This day’s just been full of surprises.” Certainly I would need some time to process his revelations about my parents. But the most surprising thing about our interaction was how completely and effortlessly he had accepted me. The instant his initial shock had passed, he treated me the way he would treat any other young woman – respectfully, but with a little old world gallantry that would never have come out had he been speaking with Carlos Morales. He didn’t act like I was a curiosity or a freak, much less some sort of demon. Why is it so hard for everyone else?

I returned to the ICU and asked the nurse at the desk to let Dr. Chatterji know that I would appreciate a moment of her time when she could spare it. Then I went back in and took the seat by Padre’s bed.

“Can you hear me?” It seemed unlikely. Every time I had been in to see him, he looked exactly the same. But who knows? Perhaps Señor Cortez was right.

I pulled the chair closer, turning it to face him. On an impulse, I took his inert left hand in both of my own. His skin felt loose, and unnaturally cool. “Maybe this is the only kind of conversation we’ll ever have, now.”

An errant thought made me chuckle. “On the plus side, you won’t be able to interrupt me. That’ll be different.”

He slept on, impassive.

I decided I didn’t care. If he didn’t hear me, nothing lost. If he did? Maybe it would help, somehow. At very least, it might help me. “Let me tell you a story, Padre. It’s not the most pleasant story, and it might make you uncomfortable. But it’s bound to be more cheerful than Anatomy of Fascism, so there’s that.”

I squeezed his hand, hoping to feel something. The barest pressure, maybe. Anything.

But no.

“Alright,” I sighed. “Be like that, you stubborn bastard. I’ll tell you anyway. Like it or not, you’re my padre, and you should know. So here’s what happened to me, after you threw me out.”

— To be continued

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.

 

Carmen Morales is a twenty-nine-year-old transwoman who works for an insurance broker in Orange County while attending law school at night. She and her two roommates are celebrating the successful conclusion of her spring semester when 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. Her father has had a stroke and is in a coma. She spends several days there and reconnects with some members of her extended family – Abuela, her brother Joachim (“Ximo”), her uncle Augustin, her senior aunt Maria, and some of her cousins – Kelsey, Inés, Guadalupe, and Gabriella. None of the interactions are free of strain, but she succeeds in coming to terms with Ximo, Kels and Innie. And even, to a certain degree, with Abuela herself. Abuela convinces a very reluctant Carmen to apply to be temporary conservator for her father.

Kelsey’s boyfriend Dace sends Carmen a “dick pic” and suggests they have sex. Carmen tells Kelsey, who gets into a fight with Dace, with Carmen and Ximo break up. Dace is arrested and Kelsey moves out of his house and into the house of one of her girlfriends.

Returning to Buttonwillow after three days back in Orange County for work, Carmen first stops at the hospital to check in on her padre. She is surprised to find her old history teacher by his bedside. They go to lunch, and she learns that Señor Cortez had known both of her parents, and had been her padre’s teacher. From him, she learns that her father had been insanely jealous of any attention paid to her mother. She also learns that Cortez and his wife did not believe her mother had been in love with Padre.

Chapter 14: Necessary Repairs

“It was kind of funny,” I told my father. “I mean, I’d survived being homeless in South Central LA, and going crazy, and all of that, and I was freaking out about a job interview? But I was, you know?”

At the soft slap of flats on linoleum, I paused my tale. Padre, being comatose, made no objection. I doubted he could hear anything I was telling him anyway. I turned just as Dr. Chatterji stuck her head in the door.

“Good afternoon, Carmen. Sally told me you were here. Would you be more comfortable speaking in my office?”

I shook my head, smiling slightly. “I know you’re busy, Doctor; we can talk here. Besides – maybe he’ll learn something.”

She grabbed a desk chair from the monitor station, wheeled next to me, and sat. Even in a lab coat the petite Indian woman looked elegant. She fixed me with a serious look, her striking eyes seeming even darker. “That’s not very likely,” she said gently.

“I know.”

“There have been no changes in his condition since you were here last. He still has a score of three on the Glasgow Coma Scale – no eye opening, no verbal responses to commands, and no voluntary movements in response to commands.”

“Is that why he still needs the breathing machine?”

“It’s related. Mostly, I want to see better functioning across his autonomic nervous system before we try to take him off of it.”

I nodded. “Makes sense. Have you seen any progress on that front?”

“Some, but it’s been inconsistent. For example, sometimes his pupils respond to light from a flashlight; other times, they don’t.”

“And you have to hold his eyelid open to run the test.”

“Yes.” Her shoulder rose in the slightest of shrugs. “Understand, none of this means that he can’t recover. People have, and a coma of this length, after a severe stroke that went untreated for some period, is not too surprising.”

“But, the odds remain poor,” I responded, feeling compelled to include the coda she had left off of her summary.

She nodded sympathetically. “I’m afraid that’s true. Obviously, we’ll continue to do all that we can, and we’ll notify you right away if there are any changes. Have you heard anything about your Court petition?”

“I talked to the investigator on Friday. He’ll be here Monday morning to see Padre, and I’ve arranged to stay over an extra day so he can interview me as well. He said that the Court’s aware that there is some urgency.”

“What time will he be here? I’d like to make a note on the schedule.”

“Would nine-thirty work?” I asked.

“Of course. I’d just like to make sure he’s properly cleaned and checked beforehand so that there aren’t any interruptions.”

“I don’t know whether he will want to interview you as well,” I said, annoyed at myself for not thinking of that when I’d spoken with him. “Will you be here Monday?”

“In the morning only. I should have a few minutes, if he needs to ask about my declaration.”

We talked for a couple minutes more before she was called away.

I pulled my chair back out of the way and looked down at the man in the bed. “I’ll have to tell you my interview story later. Oh, and about shopping for something to wear for the interview at the ‘Second Chances’ store.” I smiled. “That was the most nerve-wracking part.”

I had arranged to see Kelsey in the afternoon, and wanted to check in at the Motel Six first, now that it was almost 3:00. I headed out on Route 58 and was out of the city in ten minutes. In no time, I had a cotton field on my right and an impoundment across the road.

That’s when the Kia began to lose power.

“Oh, baby,” I crooned. “Not now!” I pushed the gas pedal a little harder, but the car continued to slow. Then it started to buck.

I managed to pull over just before the engine convulsed a final time and cut out. “Qué chingados???”

Being careful of the cars zipping by, I got out, opened the hatch and grabbed an emergency flare, which I set ten feet behind where I was stopped. Growing up in farm country, I wasn’t a complete idiot when it came to engines, so I popped the hood and checked all of the obvious things. I couldn’t see anything wrong.

“Dios Mia!” I slammed the hood down. “Does frickin’ everything have to go wrong?”

I was not blind to the fact that I was a single woman, alone on a rural highway, and that my Ruger was somewhere in the custody of the Kern County Sheriff’s Department. Not to mention, I’d told Kelsey I wouldn’t carry it. Just to make myself feel better, I got my tire iron out of the back before returning to the driver’s seat. I would rather stay outside — the passenger compartment heated up fast without the AC — but I felt less exposed.

I didn’t have AAA, or the kind of insurance that would cover emergency road service. I would need a tow, and repairs. God damn it!

I decided to call Kels first and let her know I would at least be delayed.

When she heard, though, she said, “you been in the city too long, girl. Jesus works at Alonzo’s Auto, like, five minutes from where you’re at. He’s cool.”

Jesus was another cousin – one of Tio Javier’s four kids — and he’d been in Ximo’s class. By “he’s cool,” I knew Kels wasn’t referring to his personality or how he’d feel about his freakish transgender cousin. She meant, “he’s not going to charge family.”

If I had to put up with all of the downsides of my large, crazy clan, I might as well get a few of the perks, and I wasn’t raised to be proud about such things – even though, in all honesty, I’d mostly avoided Jesus. “Do you have his number?”

“Let me check.” She was silent for a minute, then said, “I’m not seeing it. But he’s been living with Uncle Augi and Tia Consola. I bet Innie’s got his number.”

“I’ll call her; thanks.”

“Hey! I’m not just leavin’ you on the side of the road, Chica. I’ll head over right now; I should be there in fifteen minutes or so.”

“I’d say you don’t have to – and you don’t – but . . . honestly, I’m not gonna say ‘no.’”

“My turn to play Power Ranger. But I get the blue suit; you can keep the pinche pink one!”

I laughed and let her go, then sent Innie a text, knowing she’d be at work.

— Hey its me. Back in town – car died. Kels says call Jesus. Do U have #

She responded almost immediately. Jesus take the wheel, with a laugh emoji.

— Ha ha. Cringe

— IKR Poppa rubbin off. Then she added a phone number.

— Tx. I thought for a moment, then added, U have plans tomorrow night?

— Me? Fuck no

— Call U later, K?

— K

I shook my head, bemused by the exchange. The angry Innie I first spoke to a week earlier wouldn’t have been texting dad jokes. I wondered whether restoring friendships with me and Kels had made a difference. Or, maybe she’d just needed the release of getting seriously drunk with some girlfriends. Something was up, anyway, and it sounded like it was positive.

C’mon, Carmen, I growled at myself. You’re stalling. You have his number.

Jesus had always been on the outskirts at family events. He hadn’t been close to Ximo, or to Lupe and Gaby’s brother Francisco, though they’d all been around the same age. He hadn’t had the best hygiene, and he had odd habits, like talking to himself. Had a thing for Ironman. I couldn’t remember ever seeing him swim at Uncle Angel’s place. Mostly, he played with their dog – a sort of spastic mutt that barked a lot and had a three-foot vertical jump.

My eyes kept getting drawn to the shorty, pudgy figure out back, away from the crowd at the pool. It was the almost metronome-like motion, really. He must have thrown that stick thirty times. Fifty times. Inca would play fetch from dawn to dusk if he could, so he was happy to go along with it.

I wandered over. The noise behind me faded some; I could hear the drone of a lawn mower somewhere in the distance, and smell the cut grass.

“Yo, Jesus.”

He gave the stick a heave, and the dog streaked after it, eager as always to try to catch it in mid-air. Keeping his eyes on the mutt, he said, “What’r you doing here?”

“Just thought I’d see what you’re up to. I like dogs, too, you know.”

In the distance, Inca made the catch, and Jesus turned his flat gaze up at me, unblinking. “No. You like girls.”

“Huh?”

“You’re always with Kelsey and Innie. You like girls.”

The dog bounded back and dropped the stick at Jesus’ feet, grinning up at him and panting in the summer heat.

“Well, Kels and Innie are my age,” I reasoned.

“Maybe you’re a girl,” he said, picking up the stick and patting the dog’s head. “Good boy!”

“You’re weird,” I said reflexively, trying not to let any sign of my suddenly raging panic, doubt, and weakness show. “I oughta pound you for that.”

“Yeah.” He cocked his arm and made another throw, and once again the dog bounded away. “But you won’t.”

I’m ashamed to admit that I’d mostly avoided him after that, afraid of what he might guess. What he might say.

I shook my head ruefully. “Girl,” I said to myself, not worried that anyone might hear, “he’s not ten anymore. You’re not 13. Let it fucking go.”

I tried calling the number and got dropped into voice mail. I left a message, then sent a text, figuring that he probably didn’t answer the phone unless he recognized the number. Hi Jesus. It’s your cousin Carmen (used to be Carlos). I’m stranded on Route 58 just past the 43. Can I get a tow?

Instead of texting, he called back right away.

I swiped to take it. “Hi Jesus.”

“Yo, Car-men.” he responded, a bit loudly. I didn’t recognize his voice, but I wouldn’t have; he’d been fourteen the last time I’d seen him. “Innie said you were back.”

“Just visiting, dealing with Padre’s stuff. I was headed to the Motel 6, and my car died on me. No idea what’s wrong, either – it drove fine all morning, and the engine looks okay.”

“Huh. Gimme a sec.” He must have muffled the phone, because I could hear him hollering something, but couldn’t make out the words. Then he was back. “Yeah, I can come. You’re out by the impoundments, right?”

“Uh huh.”

“Okay. I’ll be seven minutes.”

“Sure thing. Thanks, ’mano.”

“Da nada.”

The car was getting stifling, so I decided to risk going outside. When I saw a semi make the slow turn at the roundabout and head my way, I shivered.

“Gets lonely, truckin’.”

Though I pushed the memory down and firmly told myself that truckers are mostly really good people, I still walked to the other side of the car and opened the passenger door. The tire iron was within easy reach.

The truck lumbered past, picking up speed on its way to the interstate.

Will I ever be free of those memories?

A dusty Impala lowrider made the turn, then slowed and stopped as it reached me. The driver, probably around my age, was a skinny wey with slicked-back hair, a pencil mustache and an unimpressive goatee. “Hey, chavala! You want to go places?”

Calling me a “little girl” made my skin crawl and my blood boil, all at the same time, but this was no place for an argument. “I’m good,” I called out, and waved him off.

“C’mon,” he wheedled. Patting the passenger’s seat, he said suggestively, “This baby’s a great ride — just like you!”

This time, I just glared at him. You get outta that car, I will Fuck. You. Up!

“Women be bitches,” he said, shaking his head in mock sadness. “Don’t know what you’re missing!” Gunning the engine, he made a great show of burning rubber as he took off.

I relaxed. Mostly.

Fortunately, Jesus arrived just a couple minutes later. He pulled in front of the Kia and parked, then stepped down from the cab and walked around to where I was standing.

He wasn’t much taller than me. Solidly built, with his father’s barrel chest, but a fair bit of flab as well. His grooming habits didn’t appear to have improved much, but he had just come from working on cars.

His expression showed undisguised curiosity. “Innie said you had tits now.”

I’m a pinche zebra in a freak show. I shook my head. “Nice to see you, too, ’mano.”

“Yeah. Uh huh. You like being a chava?” He might as well have been asking if I liked tacos.

“Some days more than others,” I said, thinking of the oily lowrider pendejo I had just dispatched.

“Yeah. Okay.” And with that, he dismissed the subject. “Let’s see what’s up with the wheels.”

He tried starting the engine. Initially I was a bit annoyed; after all, it’s not like I hadn’t tried that! But he was listening intently. Then he popped the hood, and asked me to try starting it while he checked what was going on with the engine.

He dropped the hood. “You fill up your tank recently?”

“Yeah – I was just about out when I got to Bakersfield.”

“Ah, okay.” He wiped his hands on his coveralls. “Sounds like you got some bad gas. I’ll take you back to the shop and flush out the system.”

That sounded promising, but I had to ask, “will that have caused any damage?”

“Nope. Just stops you cold. Let me get you hitched up.” He went back to his truck and fussed with the towing mechanism.

He was just starting to hoist it up when I heard the buzz of an oncoming motorcycle, and Kelsey came screaming up on her Yamaha, hair wild behind her.

As she killed the engine and put down the kick stand, I said, “C’mon, Kels! No helmet?”

“I was in a hurry to see you, bitch.” She grinned. “Besides, it’s just a short little ride. Qué onda, Jesus? How’s it hangin’?”

“Hey, Kelsey,” he responded, with a grin that seemed a bit stiff.

“You gonna be able to fix this piece of shit?” she asked him.

“Hey!” I interjected. “Don’t you be dissin’ my car!”

She snorted. “A Kia? Bitch, please!”

Jesus ignored our byplay. “I can fix it.”

Kels walked over. She gave the car a passing look, then a sharper one when she saw the tire iron sitting on the passenger seat. “Thought you had engine trouble.”

“And I wanted to make sure that was all the trouble I was gonna have.” My tone was flat. Final. I wasn’t about to make any apologies for being careful.

Kels shook her head, but decided not to say anything more.

Smart Chica.

I got up in the cab of the towtruck with Jesus, and Kels took off in front of us, heading for the shop. Before he could make any other awkward observations, I asked, “How’r your parents?”

He hit the right turn signal, double-checked that there was no traffic, and pulled into the roundabout. “Pop doesn’t say much. Mamá wants to retire, but they can’t afford it. And I don’t think she wants to spend all day with him.”

“Kels said they’re living in Taft now?”

“They found a cheap condo. And the restaurant’s there, where Mamá works. Kelsey shouldn’t drive without a helmet.”

I was thrown for a bit of a loop by the non-sequitur, but I said, “Yeah, well. You try telling her.”

“Okay.” His odd smile was back.

We pulled into the shop and he backed the Kia into a bay. Without another word, he went right to work, so I went and joined Kels. With no better options on offer, we sat in the shade on the concrete, resting our backs against one of the building’s cinderblock walls.

“Still kind of an odd duck,” I offered.

“Near as I can tell, he likes engines and animals. Understands them. But people?” She shrugged. “Not so much.”

“Seems like he’s found his place, though.”

“Better’n most of us,” she agreed.

“How’re you doing? You looked a little stiff, getting yourself down here.”

“Yeah, well. Wait ’til you see me try to get back up again.” Before I could ask more, she added, “I’m better. Should be able to go back to work Monday, I just need to avoid some of the harder physical stuff for a bit.”

“What’s the story with Dace? I assume he’s out.”

“Yeah. Pled not guilty to whatever they charged him with – I don’t know the details. But he’s supposed to stay away from me.”

I thought about my conversation with Lourdes and Katie back at my apartment. “I don’t suppose he’s under orders to stay away from me and Ximo, too?”

She gave me a side eye. “Sorry. Apparently it’s all tied in with some do-goodie laws about ‘domestic violence,’ so it’s kind of automatic. Gotta protect the ‘victim.’” She spat out the last word, looking straight ahead. “Fuck. Yeah, I lost the fight. But I am not some pinche ‘victim!’”

“Maybe you aren’t,” I said sharply, “but those ‘do-goodie’ laws save lives, Kels!”

“Whoa-whoa-whoa! Ease up, there! What’s got your panties in a wad?”

But I was no longer listening.

“Carmen — Quickly! Get my first aid kit!” Her arm cradled Sunhee, half in comfort, and half to take her weight. Not that the tiny Korean girl weighed more than a sheep dog.

“On it!” I rushed back to her office, grabbed the solid plastic case from the shelf, and ran back to the front of the building.

Sister Catalina had eased the crying girl onto the small couch in the common room, off from the front hallway. I had no sooner handed her the kit, when we were startled by heavy pounding on the front door, and the sound of a deep voice, shouting.

She thrust the kit back into my hands. “Help her.” Then she strode to the hall, pausing just long enough to tell one of the other girls to call 911.

I sat with Sunhee and gently began to clean the nasty cut that ran from nearly the corner of her eye down across her cheekbone. “I’ve got you, honey,” I murmured. “You’ll be alright.”

From out in the front hall, we heard the sound of the door, and the rattle of the chain that prevented it from opening more than a couple of inches.

A whimper escaped from the young girl’s cracked and bleeding lips.

“It’s okay,” I soothed, trying to believe it. “It’s okay.”

“You will leave this instant,” Sister’s voice was calm, but she was obviously not in a negotiating mood. He must have said something— I couldn’t make out the words — but her response carried force and conviction. “I don’t care. There’s a court order, and the police are on their way.”

A tear slid down Sunhee’s ruined face, leaving a glistening trail across bruised flesh that had once been as flawless and delicate as porcelain. At the edge of the jagged cut, the tear quivered, as if it were considering options, then dropped in and mingled with her oozing blood.

Blinking back my own tears, I raised a hand and softly brushed her cheek. “You’re safe, now. We’ve got you.”

Sitting in the shade outside the auto shop, I found myself blinking back tears once more, wondering what had become of Sunhee. That terrible night left her with a garish scar, and memories that caused her to fear her own shadow.

Kels ran a finger down my damp cheek. “I did it again, didn’t I?”

“It’s not your fault I’m a frickin’ hazmat site.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

“No,” I said, my instinct for self-preservation kicking in automatically. But much as it hurt to go back to the dark places in my past, I owed a debt to the girls at the shelter, and to Sister Catalina. It was the kind of debt I could only pay forward. It’s time, child. So I said, “I need to, though. You need to know.”

Their stories poured out. Sunhee and the dealer boyfriend she just couldn’t quit. Shawna, raped by her own uncle. Alicia, with her enormous dark eyes that always made me think of a fawn, cornered by hounds. Fatima and Trudi. Kryshawn.

Kels let me talk. Let me weep. It helped that we were both staring out at the street. Watching traffic and seeing nothing, rather than looking at each other. When I finally stopped speaking, she snaked her tattooed arm across my shoulders and squeezed. “Okay, girl. Okay. I get it.”

“You know what the worst part was?” I shook my head, lost in the memories. “They didn’t even blame the guys who did it to them. Somehow, they convinced themselves it was all their own fault. . . . That they deserved it.”

“That’s not me, Carmen. You know I’m not that kinda stupid!”

“Do I? When you date one cochino after another, and say things like, ‘I’m the chick who can’t keep a man happy?’”

“I was just . . . .” She searched for a word.

I turned my head to give her a warning look. “You say you were kidding, and I’ll break you another rib.”

“Fuck. You didn’t fight this dirty when you were a dude.”

I turned my attention back to the street. “I was never a dude.”

She sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

Just then Jesus emerged from the big bay, wiping his hands on a towel. When he spotted us, he came over. “All set, Carmen.”

“So it was just the gas?” I asked him as I rose.

“Oh, yeah. It happens, sometimes. But you’re all good now. I put a couple gallons in, but you’ll need to stop at a station and top up.”

Kels was still on the ground, so I offered her a hand.

“Nope. That’ll feel worse.” She winced, but used the wall to get back to her feet while minimizing the movement of her torso.

Jesus gave her a critical look and grinned. “You need some body work done.”

She just groaned.

I said, “Thanks a million, ’mano. I was seriously worried that this was going to set me back big bucks. You gotta let me pay something.”

He shook his head. “My boss, he understands about family.”

“Buy you a drink sometime, at least?”

“No.” He smiled his strange smile again. “You like to hang out with girls.”

I realized, with a smile I couldn’t suppress, that I didn’t need to deny it anymore. Didn’t need to run. “Wey . . . who doesn’t?”

He laughed a little longer and a little louder than the joke warranted before saying he had to get back to work. Then he gave me an awkward clap on the shoulder and said, “Innie was right. You look good.” With that, he disappeared back into the garage.

Kels and I headed out.

I had planned to meet up with her at Gomer’s place after I’d checked in to the motel, but since she had come to where I was, we just grabbed some forgettable take-out and I got a six pack at the place where I refilled my gas tank. I talked Kels into upgrading from the self-proclaimed “King of Beers,” but Corona was as far as I could push her.

An hour or so later, we were hanging out by the motel pool, drinking beer and watching a half dozen chavos splashing each other in the shallow end.

“You gonna get in?”

“Nah, I’m good.” I took a sip, and pointed the bottle at the laughing kids. “Those were some nice memories.”

“Remember Uncle Angel’s burgers?”

“With the salsa verde? Hell, yeah!”

“Or how ’bout when Lupe tried to get away with that bikini?”

I laughed. “Swear to God, I thought Aunt Maria’s head was gonna split open.”

“Go on, dive in. You know you want to.”

“Not if you can’t join me.”

“Fuck, are you stubborn about everything? I’ll stick my feet in. Just ’cuz I gotta stay bandaged up doesn’t mean you shouldn’t cool off.” She saw me dithering and smiled evilly. “Besides . . . I want to see your suit.”

“You already saw it!”

“Yeah, on the bed. Not on you.” She shook her head. “Doofus.”

I was pretty shy about showing Kels what I looked like, now. It was stupid, since she had seen me as both an awkward adolescent and a scrawny teenager, and even I knew I’d improved over that. But she wasn’t going to drop it, and the heat was still pretty intense, even at 5:30. The water would feel great.

With a sigh, I got up, removed my broad-brimmed hat and big sunglasses, then unbuttoned the sheer, light, rose-colored top I’d worn over my suit. Finally, I shimmied out of my cut-offs, feeling more than a little embarrassed.

“Well, damn,” Kels said, though she made it sound like “die-amm.” “Look at you!”

I felt my checks flush. Unlike Lupe, I never had any urge to wear a bikini. But I had loved the warm, deep red tones of the one piece I’d brought with me so much that I hadn’t focused on the raw sexiness of the high-cut bottom, the deep v-neck, and the lingerie-style straps that went half-way down my back.

“I can still push you in the pool,” I warned.

“Prob’ly.” She smiled slowly, baring her teeth. “But I could make you regret it.”

I shook my head, laughing, then walked toward the end of the pool furthest from all the activity. When I saw that I’d caught the attention of a couple of the guys who were ostensibly watching the kids, I had to fight a self-conscious desire to cover myself somehow.

I heard Katie’s voice in my head. You gotta own it, girl! Taking a deeper breath, I straightened my back, squared my shoulders, and forced myself to walk at a normal, unhurried pace. I wasn’t going to showboat, though, so when I got to the far end of the pool I put my knees and ankles together, bent my knees, and dove straight in.

If anything, the water could have been cooler, but it was still a pleasant relief. I plowed through the crawl for a couple unimpressive laps and ended by the side of the deep end, where Kels was now trailing her feet in the water.

She sucked on her beer and drawled. “Even I swim better’n you.”

“Never learned to swim,” I countered, vigorously shaking my head so as to liberally splash her. “I just figured out how not to drown.”

“Maybe it’s time you learned.” She looked serious.

“You thinking of becoming a ‘life coach’ or something?” I smiled to take any sting out of my words.

“Open wide, doofus.” She waggled the Corona.

I grinned, complied, and mostly got a face full of beer.

Her “Oops” wasn’t super convincing, but I hadn’t really expected anything else. I sputtered, laughed, and dropped down until the water covered my head completely, then sprang all the way back up and hoisted myself next to her.

“Surprise!”

It was her turn to laugh, even though I’d managed to get her pretty wet without ever doing anything as childish as splashing her. She scooted a bit further away, to avoid the puddle of water that was rapidly expanding outward as my suit shed the excess. “Bitch!”

I pressed a hand to my chest in a theatrical gesture. “Well, ah nevvah!”

She drained the last of her Corona, then cocked her head, giving me a considering look and a half smile. “I wished I’d been able to keep that Quinceañera dress. You would so rock it, now.”

“You said I rocked it then!”

“Did I? Well, ummm . . . I lied.” She grinned.

“What!”

“Hey — I kinda thought you’d broken your ankle. Had to play nice, you know?” She moved her foot through the water in a lazy circle. “Seriously, though. You look great, but it’s more than that. You look right.”

I looked down, seeing the wet bathing suit molding to every curve. Hugging my breasts, cinching my waist, flaring out — maybe not dramatically, but enough — to emphasize my round hips. More than anything, the long “v” that somehow both hid, and showcased, my feminine mound. Seeing the things I could only dream about, back when she had let me dress up in her clothes. “Thanks, Kels,” I husked. “That means a lot to me.”

“I used to feel guilty, you know? Like maybe the fam was right, and if I’d never helped you, none of the bad things would have happened.” She saw that I was about to protest and held up a hand. “I know. It was stupid. But hell, everyone thought so, and they couldn’t all be wrong . . . . Anyhow. I see you sitting there, looking like that, and I think, Jesus. This is who you were meant to be, all along. If I did anything to help, I’m fucking proud of it.”

I felt myself choking up. “Don’t start me crying again!”

“Can’t have that.” She smiled slightly, then got herself stiffly to her feet. “Two left; I’ll drink both if you’re too slow.”

I followed her back to the nylon chaise lounges where we’d left our stuff, dripping as I went, acutely conscious of just how much of my ass I was displaying for the viewing pleasure of the guys at the shallow end of the pool. “This is me,” I muttered, “owning it.”

“Huh?” Kels popped a top and handed me the bottle, cool and wet with condensation.

“Nothing.” I smiled. “Don’t mind me.”

She grabbed the last beer, opened it, and frowned down at the low chaise lounge. “If I get into it, I’m gonna have to get back out of it again.” She took a contemplative swig before shaking her head. “Nah. Hurts too much, just thinking about it.”

“Looks like one of the high tops is free.”

“Grab it.”

I had her claim the table while I retrieved our stuff, then joined her. My suit was still too wet to cover it, but I did don my hat and sunglasses. I perched on one of the tall chairs, which — at least poolside — seemed designed to show off women’s legs to best effect. Own it, Carmen. Own it.

Kels was looking back at the pool, but she didn’t seem to be focused on anything. “I visited Papi yesterday.”

My mind would always supply the same image of my Uncle Fernando; it had been seared into my hippocampus with a white-hot branding iron. The shocked expression, the wounded eyes. “Juan must be told.” I had to force myself to stay in the present. “How’s he doing?”

She gave me a look that suggested she hadn’t been fooled by my tone, but she didn’t call me on it. “He’s in prison. It sucks.” She looked away. “I told him about your Padre, and I thought I’d killed him. He didn’t look that bad when the judge read his sentence.”

I nodded, understanding. “Always seemed like it was those two against the other three, somehow.”

“I guess.” She continued to stare at nothing.

“There’s something else, isn’t there?”

She didn’t answer.

Juan must be told. “You told him about me, didn’t you?”

More silence. She took a drink.

“Kels?”

“We had a fight about it.” She shook her head. Savagely, she added, “Right now, far as I’m concerned, he can fucking stay right where he is.”

“Tell me.”

“You seriously don’t want to know.”

I reached over and held her hand. “Probably not. But you should tell me anyway. We’ll get through it.”

She hesitated, took another swig, then nodded reluctantly. “Okay, fine. But it hurts to even say it. Yeah, I told him about you — told him you were back, and you’d transitioned. I thought he’d be happy for you. I mean, they all thought you might have died or something, right? But instead . . . .”

“Instead, I came back female.”

“Yeah. And my Papi – the guy I’ve loved and admired, even after frickin’ everything he’s done to screw up his life and mine — that fucker said it would be better if your padre never woke up.”

The deep pain flared like shrapnel from an old battle, hard and sharp and deadly. The hot words straight from Padre’s mouth — “I have no daughter!” And the cold ones, a year later, by his hand. “It is my specific desire and intent to disinherit . . . .”

I sighed, then squeezed her hand, feeling my pain braid together with hers. “Your Papi’s probably right, Kels.”

“The fuck he is!”

“I mean, Padre’d probably rather not know. And you know what? I don’t care.”

“Yeah?”

”I’ll tell him anyway, if I can.” I wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Fuck him if he can’t take a joke.”

— To be continued

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