Carmen Morales works for an insurance broker in Orange County, attends law school at night, and shares an apartment with two other women, Lourdes and Katie. On the surface, everything is normal – a typical American story in the 2020’s.

But Carmen was christened Carlos Angel Morales at birth – the eldest child of the youngest son of a large, Kern County Chicano family. When “Carlos” is discovered in a dress by his Uncle Fernando, his father (Juan) kicks him out of the house, just weeks before he graduates from high school. Abuela, the family matriarch, refuses to intervene. Carlos then disappears, migrating south and spending a year living on the streets of South Central LA before finding refuge in a women’s shelter. When Carmen’s secret is again discovered, she leaves the shelter for a job and new life in Santa Ana.

Eleven years after he forced “Carlos” to leave, Juan has a massive stroke and falls into a coma. Abuela tracks Carmen down and calls her back, ultimately getting her to agree to be Juan’s conservator on a temporary basis. While Carmen goes about the task, getting Juan approved for health insurance and applying for various benefits, she also reconnects with her younger brother Joaquim (“Ximo”), her cousins Kelsey and Inés (“Innie”), other family members, and a former teacher. Carmen also learns more than she ever knew about her parents, and the reasons why her mother disappeared, back when Carmen was only eight.

As July gives way to August, Carmen returns to Kern for the sixth time, intending to end her term as conservator and pass the duties to Ximo. This time, though, she is not staying with her cousins, or at a hotel, but with Andar Kasparian, a Bakersfield-based attorney with whom she has become romantically involved.

For a refresher on Carmen’s family tree, see this post.

Chapter 37: New Wine and Old Battles

Even filtered through a simple gauze curtain, the first rays of the morning sun were enough to bring me out of my deep, untroubled sleep. My eyelids fluttered open, but I didn’t look toward the source of the light.

Andar was still sleeping, and it was my first opportunity to observe him in a completely unguarded moment. Lourdes had described him as serious, but she’s only had the one conversation with him, under unusual circumstances. I didn’t really see him that way, since he seemed to be more easy-going than I am. He was more self-assured, but he was five years older . . . and he’d never had to deal with being trans.

Or hungry.

Or borderline insane.

Even sleeping, his face seemed to reflect his liveliness. The laugh-lines were there, highlighted by the impact of a soft smile. Maybe he was having good dreams. Maybe his lips just curled that way at rest. Perhaps, with a little time, I would find out which. I hoped to have lots of opportunities to gather data!

Such a masculine face. A high forehead topped by blue-black hair that always looked like it had been oiled, even though it wasn’t. Bushy eyebrows, kept trimmed. Strong, slightly oversized nose. A firm jawline and chin, well-covered by dark stubble; it had been twelve hours since his last shave.

In less than a week, we had gone from two people who were maybe interested in each other, trying out a first date, to lovers. I was in his bed. Part of me asked how it could have happened so fast. Most of me wondered what had taken me so long.

Just thinking about the wonderful way he had greeted me last night was enough to make me tremble. I reached over and rested my palm over his heart, my fingers playing with the dark curly hairs on his chest.

His smile deepened, causing his dimples to appear. “What a nice way to wake up.”

“Are you?” I teased. “I don’t see any eyes.”

The smile became a grin. “I don’t need eyes to be an early riser.”

My hand slid lower. “Oooh! Right you are!”

Then his eyes opened, warm and welcoming. “Such a clever girl!”

He rolled, and I found myself pinned underneath him. His hand found my breast and curled around it, somehow both gentle and urgent.

I gasped, and my arms rose to circle him.

My next coherent thought, which I didn’t manage to pull together until the sun was a bit higher, was that I’d discovered an activity other than dancing that seemed to get me completely out of my head.

When we were finished, he was lying on his back, my head was on his chest, and his fingers were playing with my hair.

“I don’t suppose we can stay like this all day, can we?” He sounded wistful.

“Hmmm,” I said contentedly. “That sounds like a really good idea. Unfortunately . . . .”

“Duty calls?” I could hear the smile in his voice without having to raise my eyes.

I turned my head just enough to kiss his chest, then settled in again. “Yup. I’m going to need to see Ximo, padre and Abuela today. That’s it, if I’m lucky.”

“Did you arrange times with anyone?”

“Ximo and I talked about lunch. Padre’s not on a schedule, and I figured I might catch Abuela at the hospital, either in the morning or later in the afternoon.”

His hand started roving lazily up and down my naked back. “So, we have a bit of time this morning. Are you a breakfast person? And if so, what kind of a breakfast?”

His caresses made me feel like a cat in a sunpatch and I stretched appreciatively. “Mostly I’m a coffee person. Food’s kind of less important.”

“A coffee snob, huh?”

I shook my head. “Nope. I’m not picky. But the caffeine hit’s a must.”

“Cream? Sugar? Foamed milk?”

“Don’t care. Well – not sugar, unless the coffee’s super strong. And I usually do milk rather than cream. But I’ll take it however.” I rolled slightly, put both hands on his chest with fingers laced together, then rested my chin on them and looked into his dark eyes. “What about you? I’m here in your bed; I feel like I should at least know how you like your coffee!”

Even his eyes smiled. “I want to learn everything about you.”

“I’m gonna learn how you fold your t-shirts.” I grinned impishly. “What you keep in your fridge – and for how long! And whether you put the seat down on your toilet.”

“All my secrets!”

“Yep.” I scootched forward, then kissed him. “Every one of them!”

The first secret I discovered was that Andar’s shower was big enough for two people. The second – well, I guess it wasn’t a secret so much as something utterly new to my experience – was that showering with your lover is an incredibly sensual experience. Even two people habituated to taking brief, water-saving California showers couldn’t resist extending the experience. Soap and water are amazing. Who knew?

Andar did the guy thing, throwing on shorts and going off to the kitchen to look into coffee and breakfast. I would normally have gone with shorts and a tank top myself, given the rounds I had scheduled for the day, but I wanted to do better than that for Andar.

Lourdes had insisted I pack a light cami-style sundress with a full, above-the-knee skirt and a high, shirred waist. One of the advantages to having a modest bust is that I can get away with nothing more than a cami top’s built-in shelf bra – a real blessing on a hot day. I did have to pair the dress with panties that matched my skin tone, to ensure that no silhouette was visible through the white, slightly patterned fabric of the dress.

I double-checked in Andar’s mirror and decided I was alright. Ximo might give me some grief, but Abuela wouldn’t see it and padre had more important things to worry about than my (lack of) modesty. Assuming, of course, that he even knew who I was.

By the time I’d put on morning makeup and selected earrings and footwear, I was hearing encouraging noises coming from the kitchen – as well as some enticing smells. I went to investigate and found Andar whistling a bit tunelessly while working on something interesting on the stove.

“Look at you!” he said approvingly.

I laughed and almost gave him a twirl. Instead, I said, “just so you know, I usually don’t dress this way. You make me want to.”

He pulled his egg dish off the stove, brought me in close and kissed me softly. “How did I get so lucky?”

I put my arms around his neck and smiled. “That’s my line.”

“I don’t think so,” he chided. “But before I get carried away, let me serve you some breakfast while it’s all still hot.”

I couldn’t very well disagree with that, especially when my body was reacting to the strong coffee smells that were coming from the oddly-shaped contraption on the stove, which he informed me was a jezve or cezve, rather than (as I had thought) an ibrik. The egg dish was a combination of scrambled eggs and crushed tomatoes, topped with a salty cheese and dill. This, apparently, was called tsvatsegh.

After a couple forkfuls (delicious!) and another sip of coffee that was definitely strong enough to need a little sugar, I managed, “So, you cook?”

He waggled his fingers. “My mother would say ‘no.’ Anna and Elen would agree with her, but like I told you before, they’re older sisters, so their opinions don’t count.”

I stuck my tongue out at him. “Don’t you be sharing that nonsense with Ximo!”

“I don’t need to. Younger brothers all know this from birth. Anyway . . . the truth is, I can cook easy stuff, and tsvatsegh is about as easy as Armenian food gets. When you meet my mom, though, she’s going to want to know what I cooked for you, so I had to do something.”

I shook my head. “You want me to meet your mom?”

“Of course.” He sipped his coffee and looked at me quizzically. “Why wouldn’t I?”

No. Not going to beat around the bush. “I’d say ‘because we’ve only been going out for a week,’ but you know that’s not what I’m worried about. How will your mother – or the rest of your family – react to you dating a transwoman?”

“Have you seen yourself in the mirror, Carmen?” He smiled. “They’ll be fine.”

“It’s not that easy,” I said gently. “I don’t walk around with a chip on my shoulder, but . . . I don’t hide who I am. Or what I am.”

He held out a hand and I took it. “I won’t ever ask you to. Never. Anyway, that’s not what I meant. I honestly don’t know how anyone in my family would feel about my dating someone who is trans, in the abstract. But I can absolutely predict how they’ll feel about my dating you. After five minutes, they’ll barely even remember that you’re trans.”

“Thank you,” I said softly. “And, look . . . I’m sorry about that. I’m just off borrowing trouble again. We did just start dating.”

“Better,” he grinned. “But honestly, so you know . . . I don’t just invite women up here casually.”

“No?” I teased.

“No.” He smiled, but his eyes were serious. “You’re special. Understand that.”

We finished breakfast and I helped clean up, by which time it was close to ten.

“I should probably get going,” I sighed. “I’ll stop in on padre before catching up with Ximo for lunch.”

He nodded reluctantly. He’d offered to go with me, but I knew he had work to get done. I’d have time to show him off later.

We had one last, lingering kiss, which almost resulted in yet another long delay. But then I was out of the apartment, and within ten minutes I was at the hospital.

I went back up to the ICU. Dr. Chatterji had delayed his move into a recovery ward, just as a precaution, due to a few indicators in his bloodwork that she was tracking. My friend Jill Thomas was the duty nurse, so I stopped at her station to say hello and get the latest.

“He had a good week,” she beamed. “The PT staff was really pleased – they’re making significant progress restoring movement, though he’s obviously still very weak. And the Botox injection helped to relax the muscles in his left hand; we’re working up to getting him into a hand splint.”

“Still no progress with speech?”

She shook her head. “No, and that has been frustrating. With the other progress he’s made, we really expected something. Like everything else, though, it should just be a matter of time and effort. He’s clearly understanding people and communicates non-verbally.”

“We’ll keep hoping.” I gave her a big smile. “I’m going to miss you, when they move him.”

“Thanks, Hon. Go on now; he was awake a few minutes ago.”

So I left her and went down to padre’s room. His eyes were definitely open, and they had elevated the bed to something close to a 45 degree angle so that he was partially sitting. A strap crossed his chest, though, to ensure that he didn’t slump down.

I said good morning as I came in, and his eyes immediately shifted to my location and tracked me as I walked. His head hadn’t moved, so I assumed the muscles in his neck were still too weak to manage that on their own. The droop in both his left eye and his mouth was definitely less pronounced, and his face seemed more animated. More alive.

His left hand was still somewhat tensed up, but nowhere near as bad as it had been. Still, I moved around to the other side of the bed and took hold of his right hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “It’s good to see you looking better.”

I felt return pressure. Not even a child’s; more like an infant’s. But it was there, and it was intentional. I could see why the PT staff had been thrilled.

“Is it easier for you to communicate with your hand? Or by blinking?”

I felt pressure from his hand.

“Okay. So, squeeze one for yes, two for no, three for ‘I don’t know’?”

He squeezed once, and I nodded in acknowledgment.

I started with the easy stuff. “Do you know where you are?”

One squeeze.

“You understand that you’ve had a stroke?”

One squeeze.

“Do you know how long you’ve been here?”

Two squeezes.

“It’s been around seven weeks. You know your mamá has been here, every day, right?”

One squeeze.

“Would you like me to tell you the latest information I got from your doctors?”

One squeeze. His gaze somehow seemed to grow sharper.

So I spent some time telling him everything I knew about his recovery. I talked about the Glasgow Coma Scale, and the progress that he’d been making. I discussed Dr. Chatterji’s caution about possible infection from his long intubation, and the likelihood that he would be out of the ICU soon. I paused at regular intervals to ask if he understood.

“So, that’s all the medical stuff,” I finished. “I’m going to need to talk to you about some financial and legal stuff, too, but we don’t have to do that right now if you need a break. Should I wait?”

He just looked at me for a long minute, like he was thinking it over. He squeezed my hand once. Then twice.

Then, a third time.

Huh. I tried to puzzle that one out. ‘I don’t know’ didn’t make a lot of sense in that context; either he wanted me to continue or he didn’t. Unless the problem was more basic . . . .

With considerable trepidation, I decided to take another crack at a fundamental issue. “Do you know who I am?”

HIs eyes slid away from my face, and I felt no pressure from his hand.

“Do you?” I repeated softly.

He didn’t look back to me, but suddenly his hand gripped mine, much more powerfully than before. It wasn’t a squeeze; he didn’t let go.

Startled, I followed his gaze to the door.

Platinum blond hair, face like a porcelain doll, and bones like a sparrow. Still petite. Still exotic.

The ice blue eyes that fixed on my face held hunger, regret, fear, and resignation. But still she didn’t speak. It was like both of us were frozen in time, trying, and failing, to connect past and present.

A harsh, crow-like voice broke the silence. “Kaaa . . . thie!”

I looked down at padre, my eyes practically jumping out of my head.

Momma moved quickly to his other side and held his crippled left hand. “I’m here, Juan.” The voice was choked with guilt and grief, but I would recognize it anywhere. The same voice I’d heard on the phone . . . and, occasionally, in my dreams.

Padre appeared to struggle, though in his weak state it was hard to tell. His eyes strained, then he managed another word. Almost a breathy sound, then “ ‘hy?”

Momma spared me a quick, confused glance, before looking back at the man in the bed. “I . . . don’t understand. I’m sorry.”

My brain was whirling. Although it felt like a major breakthrough – padre was speaking, or trying to, and his grip on my hand hadn’t diminished – it also felt like a moment of great risk. I had no idea what the shock of seeing his wife might do to him in his condition.

I made a snap decision. “Momma.”

She looked at me, startled.

Well, I can’t think what else to call you! “He hasn’t spoken since the stroke. I’m going to ask a nurse to come in while you’re here, just in case.”

“In case . . . ?”

“He’s still weak; I don’t want to see a relapse. Alright?”

She nodded sharply. “Of course. Yes.”

I gently laid padre’s right hand on his chest, then went to the door. Turning back, I saw that Momma was looking at me, but padre only had eyes for her. “I might be wrong,” I told her. “But I’m pretty sure what he just asked was ‘why.’ You might want to wait until the nurse is here before you tackle that one.”

I saw the pain in her eyes and was surprised to feel moved by it. But I had a job to do, so I left the two of them and sped down the corridor.

Jill looked up from her computer screen and half rose. “Carmen, what’s wrong?”

“Can you spare a few minutes? Padre’s speaking, but I’m worried that he’s overexcited.”

“Right behind you,” she promised, hitting a button on her desk then joining me. As we sprinted back, she said, “that’s a cousin? I’ve haven’t seen her before.”

“Cousin?”

“She said –.”

I shook my head, still almost running. “My mother.”

But we were at the door. To my mother, I said, “This is Jill Thomas.” Then I looked at Jill and floundered. What should I say? “This is Kathy . . . Parker.”

“Nnno!” Padre rasped.

Jill sized up the situation in an instant and went around to padre’s right side, where I’d been standing before. Her eyes flitted to the monitor by the side of the bed, quickly taking in data that were just meaningless numbers to me. Then she looked down, and her tone was no-nonsense. “Mr. Morales, it’s good to hear you speak. I want to make sure you don’t get too excited, though. So let me ask, do you want Ms. . . . do you want Kathy to stay?”

His “yes” was pretty clear.

“Okay, then here’s what we’re going to do. She can stay for a bit, and you two can talk. I’ll monitor you to make sure you don’t overextend. Okay?”

He managed another “yes.”

Momma looked down at her former – and, legally, current – husband, and took a ragged breath. “Juan . . . were you asking why I’m here?”

“Nnnn . . .” He stuttered, stopped, and tried again. “Nno.”

“Then, what –”

His barking voice cut her off. “‘Hy. You.” He faltered, took a breath, and added, “Llleave.”

She sank slowly, like a ship that had been shelled below the waterline, until she was kneeling by the side of the bed. “Oh, Juan! I’m so sorry! Sorry for everything!”

I shouldn’t be here, I thought, as I looked at my mother’s tear-filled face. I felt almost ill. This should be private. At very least, I shouldn’t be listening.

They were locked in on each other, giving no thought to the rest of the world. But Jill spared me a look filled with understanding . . . and pity. Surreptitiously, she waved two fingers towards the doorway and gave a nudge of her head. When I didn’t move, she mouthed. “I’ve got this.”

I nodded, mouthed a heartfelt ‘thank you,’ and stumbled back into the corridor. Now that I’d done what was necessary for padre’s immediate safety, my ability to cope with the situation evaporated. Without a better plan, I wandered toward the nurse’s station. Another woman was behind the computer monitor; her name momentarily escaped me.

“Hey Carmen,” she said. “Jill buzzed me over. Everything okay with your dad?”

How to answer that? “Uhh . . . he’s decided to start talking.”

“What??? That’s fabulous!”

And it was, certainly. It just didn’t feel like the most important thing, in that instant. I wasn’t entirely sure what was.

“Thanks . . . Peggy.” Her name suddenly came back to me. “I think I need to sit down for a minute.” There were chairs against the wall.

“Can I get you anything?” Suddenly, she sounded concerned. “You look kind of pale.”

“No, I’m good. Really. I just need . . . .” It hit me, I need to talk to Ximo.

I fished out my phone, which unfortunately was in my purse since my cute sundress lacked anything as practical as a pocket. I punched up my brother on speed dial and sat, closing my eyes. Imagining him out in the backyard, or at the kitchen table. Maybe he was enjoying a late morning with Sherilynn. We were just going to have a quiet lunch today. Easy peasy.

He answered almost immediately. “¿Qué onda, Carmen? What’s the plan?”

“Remember when you called Momma and chewed her out a couple weeks back?”

“Yeah,” he said, sounding cautious.

“Seems like it worked. She’s here.”

“¡No manches!”

My eyes remained closed. “She’s in with padre now.”

“You didn’t –”

“There’s a nurse in the room with them,” I assured him. “But you might want to haul ass down here; I get a strong sense she was hoping to zip in and out without running into anyone.”

“Seriously? What’s wrong with that woman?”

“If you move fast, you might get the chance to ask. Just sayin’.”

“I’m comin’. Jesus!” He muttered something I couldn’t make out, then said, “Are you okay? You sound, like, spacy.”

“I think I ran out of processor speed. Or bandwidth. Or something.” Truth is, I did feel like I was kind of disassociating. “Whatever. I’ll see you soon.”

“Be there in . . . twenty five. Maybe thirty.”

“Yup.” I opened my eyes to end the call and stared at the phone stupidly, like it was going to give me answers. Yeah, not real likely, girl.

“You still there?” Ximo’s voice came from the handset, sounding small and faraway since I was no longer holding the phone by my ear.

“Nope,” I assured him.

This time I remember to end the call.

We were lying on a blanket in the backyard. It was scratchy and smelled a bit, but we didn’t care. All of us were on our backs, looking into the night sky, counting shooting stars. Momma had little Domingo in her arms; he was sleeping as usual. Ximo was on her left, and I was on her right. Who knows where padre was? Out.

“Nine,” Ximo said sleepily.

“You said ‘nine’ before,” I reminded him. I wasn’t convinced he could count higher than nine. I could count MUCH higher!

“Shhhhh,” Mamma soothed. “Don’t wake the baby.”

She started singing softly — so softly I could barely hear her. But I knew it was the French song. I wanted to sing along, but I was sleepy, too. And it seemed like she kept singing, adding words I hadn’t heard before. Words I didn’t know. I strained my ears to make them out, a whisper in the cool night air.

Je voudrais que la rose,
Fût encore au rosier
Et que ma douce amie
Fût encore à m'aimer

Il y a longtemps que je t'aime
Jamais je ne t'oublierai.

“Carmen?”

Nurse Peggy was standing in front of me with a plastic cup. I had no idea how long I’d been staring straight at her. Or through her. Something.

“Um . . . right. Yes?”

“Drink this down, would you?”

“What–”

“Just water. You look like you could use it.”

I nodded, took the cup, and drank it down. “Thanks.”

“I can get you some Advil.” She sounded uncertain.

I shook my head. “No, that helped.” Surprisingly, it had. I got up and found the momentary fuzziness was fading. C’mon, Carmen, get your shit together . . . .

“You’re sure?”

I smiled reassuringly. “Yeah, really.”

She went back to her seat and glanced at her monitor before looking back at me. “What were you singing to yourself, just now?”

My mind blanked. “Singing?”

Mercifully, Momma chose that moment to emerge from padre’s room. Jill was right behind her.

I apologized to Peggy for interrupting our conversation, then walked down to meet them.

“He’s fine,” Jill said before I had the chance to voice my concerns. “He’s sleeping now, and I gave him something to make sure he gets some solid rest.”

“Did he keep talking?”

“Some. Not much – a few words at a time. He seemed confused. But some things . . . .” Her eyes slid to Momma. “He was real clear about some things.”

I tried to focus on the immediate, practical meaning of it all. “Still a big jump, though? Medically?”

“Medically? Yes. Absolutely. I’ll make sure Dr. Chatterji knows ASAP. Now . . . I need to get back to the desk, okay?”

“Of course. Thanks for all your help – that was above and beyond.”

“No worries.” She sounded better. Crisper. She gave me a genuine smile, then strode off to relieve Peggy.

Leaving me with my mother, who looked like she’d just been spun up to 1400 rpm and carved on a lathe. Although, big picture, I still had no idea what to say to her, the small stuff was obvious. “Are you alright?”

Her eyes, now bloodshot, searched my face as if she was looking for a trap. “Probably.” She shrugged. “Somehow, I always seem to survive.”

My normal, human instinct was to offer comfort, but I couldn’t bring myself to move. “It never occurred to me that you would come.”

“Dom’s band is playing in Vegas and I went out to see him. Back in my hotel room after the show, I just started thinking about everything Ximo said about Juan . . . about your father.” Her voice dropped, almost as if she were thinking out loud. “Less than five hours away. . . . I had to come. At very least, I owed him a goodbye.”

“Did it help?”

“Me?” Her smile was like broken glass. “Or him?”

The corridor at the ICU wasn’t the place for this conversation. We either needed to end it, or take it somewhere more private. I scrubbed my face with my hands, as if that would help me choose, then said, “Can we go get coffee or something? Have you eaten?”

She shook her head. “I’d hoped I’d see Juan and get out before anyone else caught me. Most of all, I didn’t want to cause you any more grief . . . but there you were.”

I looked at her, incredulous. I do not understand you. I can’t even. “It would hurt me way worse, knowing you left without at least talking to me and Ximo. You have to know that!”

“But . . . you didn’t write back. I thought . . . .” Her voice tapered off.

I looked down, trying to figure out how to explain. “I wanted to. Tried to, even. A lot of drafts, that I ended up deleting.” I refocused on her and shrugged apologetically. “I just couldn’t find a way to put a lifetime into an email.”

She didn’t respond, but her eyes looked haunted. Wounded, even.

“For whatever it might be worth, I’m sorry. But . . . will you please stay long enough to talk to your children?” Echoing her earlier comment, I added, “even if it’s just to say goodbye?”

She bit her lip. “Ximo doesn’t want to see me. He was so angry!”

My phone pinged. I flashed her an apologetic look, then pulled it out of my purse and had a quick look. I’m here but no parking. Be there in 2 or 3.

I dropped the phone back where it belonged and said, “Yes, he does. Which I know, because he just drove here. Come on, let’s go find him.”

She looked terrified — literally terrified — and I thought, terrified? Of XIMO? He must have really torn her a new one.

I put a gentle hand on her elbow and began steering her toward the elevator. “He was angry. He’s probably still angry. But he’s a fine man, and he’s your son.”

“Okay,” she said shakily.

We were ten feet away when the elevator doors beeped and opened. I sent a silent prayer to whatever angel might be on duty, that Ximo wouldn’t lose his shit with her until we got somewhere private.

But it wasn’t Ximo. It was my cousin AJ, guiding Abuela. He was ready with an easy smile as soon as he saw me. “Hey, Carmen!”

Before I could respond, Momma’s eyes rolled upward and she collapsed like her strings had been cut.

I kept just enough of a grip to slow her fall, then dropped down to take her weight. I ended up half kneeling and half sitting, cradling her limp body in my arms, with her feather-light hair spilling over my chest.

At least we were in a hospital! “Help!”

Abuela broke in, her voice sharp. “What’s happening?”

“Hang on, Abuela!” AJ made sure she had a hand connected to a wall before he knelt by me. “Who is she?”

Suddenly Jill Thomas was there as well. “What happened, Carmen?”

I shook my head. “I think she just fainted. A few too many shocks, today.”

“Got it,” she said, all business. “All right, lower her down, carefully. Everyone get back and give her some air, okay?”

I followed her directions, then watched as she got to work.

Somehow Abuela’s sightless eyes found me without any difficulty. “Who?”

Here goes. “My mother.”

AJ’s eyes grew wide as saucers, and his gaze dropped to examine her face. He whispered, “Aunt Kathy? I barely even remember her.”

“So.” Abuela’s face was completely unreadable, and her voice held no expression at all. “You brought her back.”

I opened my mouth to explain, but I was interrupted by the elevator’s return. Tia Juana practically walked right into Abuela, catching herself just in time. “Sorry! Parking was . . . .” She abruptly stopped what she’d intended to say, taking in the scene in a flash.

When she saw my mother, her eyes widened in shock and surprise. But a moment later her expression shifted. Softened.

Momma was starting to come around, now. Tia Juana knelt down next to her, laying a hand on her pale cheek. “Hey Kath . . . it’s Juana. Just relax now; it’s gonna be alright.”

Momma’s eyes fluttered open. She looked up, first seeing Jill Thomas, and then seeing her sister-in-law. “Juana?” She shook her head, as if she couldn’t reconcile my aunt’s face with her memories. “I’m sorry. I promised I wouldn’t come back.”

“Like I said, don’t worry about it,” tia Juana soothed. “It was all so long ago, and no-one’s the same any more. Well . . . Maria is, probably. But that’s about it.”

Momma’s gaze shifted again, as if she was searching for someone. When her eyes found AJ, she flinched. “You’re the same . . . but . . . .” She stopped, confused.

Tia Juana chuckled. “I make that mistake all the time, and I gave birth to him. Trust me, Javi’s changed more than any of us.”

Momma’s jaw literally dropped. “Oh, my God! That’s Alejandro? Little Alejandro?”

“Not so little, now.” Tia Juana smiled slightly. “Like I said, Kath. A lot of years. Do you think you can stand?”

“Give her a minute more,” Jill instructed.

Abuela broke the silence, her voice low and soft. “I have not changed,” she said. “Not where it matters. So tell me: Why are you here, Kathy? Why?”

— To be continued

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