Flipping Fates Read online

  And is Cecily so desperate for a relationship that she’s willing to overlook all the red flags just to be in one? I’d thought she was more grounded than that.

  Am I the only person who sees the potential problem with this?

  Dad instructs the congregation to turn to some location in the Bible, and the ripple of flipping paper as thin as onion skin whispers throughout the sanctuary in a chorus of five hundred voices. I twist my hands in my lap. I left my Bible on the kitchen counter this morning.

  I think we’re in John this morning. Something about Peter and Jesus. Dad’s always talking about Peter, claiming that they’re too similar for him to ignore. Peter, the loud, brash, impulsive disciple. The one that chopped people’s ears off and never hesitated to jump into a fight. Peter made snap judgments and ended up in trouble all the time. And he was constantly putting his foot in his mouth.

  Well, I guess Dad isn’t the only one who feels a sort of kinship with Peter. I’ve never cut anybody’s ear off, but I am very familiar with the taste of shoe leather.

  At the end of the pew, Cecily and Keith are holding hands.

  If Laurel were here, she’d coo and sigh about how cute it was. She’d express how happy she was that Cecily had connected with another human being in general, and she would want to know how long they were planning to date before they got married. Laurel was a hopeless romantic like that.

  All I can think about is wondering how Keith thinks he can support Cecily. Or if he’s expecting Cecily to support him. And if Cecily has even thought about that. Sure, Keith has a job with the Union Rescue Mission, but is that the kind of job that can support him in the real world? What if they have a family?

  My chest feels all funny inside, like my lungs are itchy. Anxiety creeps up my spine.

  I don’t know why I have so much trouble trusting Keith. It’s not as though he’s done anything to deserve my lack of trust. He shows up at the house and works himself to exhaustion like the rest of us, and then he goes home, sleeps, and comes back the next morning to do it again. If nothing else, that should make me respect him. But all I can see is that skull tattoo.

  The last time I saw a tattoo like that was on the gang members who held me captive last year, threatened to rape me, threatened to sell me, threatened to kill me. They’d had tattoos up and down their arms, across their chests, up their necks. Just like Keith.

  What if he’s lying? The thought twists around inside me like a knot of barbed wire. What if there’s some secret motive behind why he’s working on the house? What if there’s some agenda he’s not talking about?

  If Aaron were here and could hear my thoughts, he’d be ashamed of me. The realization hits me with a weight that drags my shoulders downward. I only know the basics of Keith’s circumstances, which he was open enough to share with me, and here I am holding them against him. Judging him. Just like old lady Barnes in her ugly bird hat over by the organ.

  I need to be better.

  I need to do better. Just because Keith came from somewhere I don’t like doesn’t give me permission to hold it against him. Just like Jordin. Just like Avecita. I was willing to think the best of them. Why can’t I think the best of Keith?

  The organ blares self-righteously from its corner, and the piano on the other side of the sanctuary tries to match its volume. I’m pretty sure we are the only church where the organist and the pianist compete to see who can play “Just As I Am” louder. Yes, come to Jesus. Walk the aisle and give your life to Christ. Don’t worry about your hearing, since it’s now been obliterated. Since you can’t hear anything now, you can start a sign language ministry. Welcome to the family of God.

  Once the dueling keyboardists have deafened everyone in the sanctuary who couldn’t turn their hearing aids down, Dad dismisses us. If Laurel or Aaron had been in attendance, we would have stayed seated and chatted until the parking lot cleared out. But since I’m on my own, I turn my gaze to where Cecily and Keith are standing.

  Gathering my purse, I move toward them. Keith flashes a smile at me.

  “That was great,” he says. “I usually attend services at URM, but I may start coming here. Trisha, your dad is a really gifted speaker.”

  “Well, I think so. But I’m biased.” I shrug. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  Keith glances around the mostly empty sanctuary. “Where is Aaron?”

  “Oh, he had to run down to Oklahoma to check on his grandpa.” I shift my purse strap. “Aaron helps him out a lot, even though he lives here in Tonkawa now.”

  “So you are without companionship this afternoon?” Cecily cocks a brown, unplucked eyebrow at me.

  I shake my head. “I wish. I am hanging out with my grandma this afternoon.”

  “So Aaron has his grandpa, and you have your grandma?” Keith beams.

  “That’s right.” I fold my arms. “I want to trade.”

  Keith laughs. “You’re really blessed to have your grandmother in your life. I never knew either of my grandparents.”

  “Well, it keeps life interesting, that’s for sure.”

  Cecily turns partway toward me. “Are you eating with your family for lunch?”

  “Well.” I glance around the sanctuary, which is currently empty of any and all Lees in existence. “No. I guess not.”

  “Then you should join us for lunch.” Keith nods firmly. “And then you can spend the rest of the day with your grandma.”

  Lunch? With Keith and Cecily? Part of me is hesitant. Considering how quickly the two of them connected, it’s not a stretch to imagine that Keith shares Cecily’s quirks and eccentricities. Which means bizarre television shows, raw fish, and books that are only fit to be doorstops.

  “What do you have in mind?” I try to keep the trepidation out of my voice.

  Keith’s eyes sparkle. “Do you like Salvadoran?”

  I scowl. “I—don’t know.”

  Keith takes my arm and pulls me up the aisle of the sanctuary. “Just down the road from here is a little family owned restaurant. Abuelita’s. Amazing food. You’ve got to try it.”

  “Is it like Mexican food?” I squirm slightly in Keith’s grip.

  “It is Salvadoran food.” Cecily appears on my other side.

  “That doesn’t help me.”

  “They have tamales, pupusas, plantains, empanadas, soups, even fried tilapia.” Cecily ticks items off her fingers. “Many, many varieties.”

  “What’s a pupusa?”

  “Delightful, that’s what it is.” Keith laughs.

  “You will enjoy this outing, Patricia.”

  Keith leads me out to the parking lot and directs me to a small gray sedan. “We’ll drive you there and bring you back, and then you can go hang out with your grandmother. Sound like a plan?”

  I sigh. “Sure. Why not?”

  What’s the worst that can happen? I get food poisoning? I’ve eaten at a lot worse places and been fine. Shoot, I’ve eaten at better places and ended up sick—like the bad catfish from a few years ago? Oh, that’s a memory I don’t need.

  Keith points to the passenger side of the gray sedan, and Cecily jumps in the back seat. It’s amazing to watch Keith fold his long skinny legs up so that he can cram himself into the driver’s seat. Of course, I have to do the same thing in the passenger seat. The tiny car was barely designed for two, let alone three.

  “How did you get into Salvadoran cuisine?” I glance at Keith as he starts the car.

  He grins. “Oh, the family that owns the place is a donor family at URM. They come in and help with the meal service at least once a month, and last year they catered a staff luncheon. I eat at Abuelita’s as often as I can.”

  True to his word, the tiny little restaurant is only a few blocks away from the church parking lot. Fortunate because I can’t feel my legs even after only a few minutes of riding in Keith’s tiny car. Even so, the dozen spaces out front of the restaurant are full. Keith has to park in the street.

  We cross to the entry and step inside, and
the scent of frying meat and spices washes over me in a rush that makes my stomach rumble. Oh, yeah, this was a good idea.

  A short woman with curly dark hair waves happily at Keith and points at a table in the corner that looks freshly wiped. Keith waves back and says something in Spanish, and he leads us to the corner, taking Cecily gently by the elbow.

  The next hour passes in five minutes.

  It’s a mashup of trying to sort through the menu and being introduced to the Cortez family, even to Abuelita herself—the grand matron of the clan. Somehow they know my dad, and that’s all it takes for them to want to fill our table with three of everything from the menu.

  Homemade tortilla chips with freshly chopped salsa. Beans and guacamole. Empanadas stuffed with seasoned meat and onions. Overflowing bowls of fragrant rice. Salads with a gingery dressing of some kind. There’s some kind of cheese dip too, I think. They serve fried plantains with sour cream, and they bring out baskets of yuca, which is something I’ve never heard of. It’s like potato but sweeter, stickier, starchier. They also serve tamales like I’ve never seen before—pressed together with the same masa as traditional Mexican tamales, but not wrapped in corn husks. Instead, they are wrapped in banana leaves, which gives them a sweeter flavor.

  We order chicken and pork.

  The pupusas, however, are indeed the star of the show. Delightful, as Keith put it. About the size of silver dollar pancakes, pupusas are griddle cakes stuffed with beans and meat. Charred to perfection and filled with everything savory and delicious, the pupusas don’t even need salsa or sour cream.

  The Cortez family keeps bringing out food, course after course, until all of us are so full we can’t eat another bite. All throughout the meal, Keith laughs as he points out specific menu items that are meaningful to him. Cecily listens intently and tries everything that’s set before her, so I do the same.

  Keith even speaks some Spanish with Abuelita, who embraces him with fragile arms and a matronly pat on his cheek.

  The heat in the dining area, spilling out of the kitchen, moves Keith to shed his outer long-sleeve shirt, leaving him in a plain gray t-shirt underneath. But now—now the skull tattoo is on full display. I can see it more clearly now than before. All black ink. Gawking empty sockets. Tooth-strewn grin. And the words beneath, “NO FATE.”

  I freeze when I realized that Keith has noticed my staring.

  He points to his neck. “I got it when I was a teenager.” He smiles sheepishly. “It was supposed to impress the losers I was hanging out with. It didn’t.”

  I offer him an awkward smile. “Does it mean anything?”

  He shrugs. “No fate.”

  “Yeah, I got that much.”

  Keith laughs. “I wanted everybody to know that I did what I wanted. I made my own choices.”

  “You made your own fate?”

  “Yeah.” He grins suddenly. “I thought about having it covered, but it still matters. It reminds me where I came from and what I used to believe.”

  “You don’t believe in fate anymore?”

  His grin brightens to a smile that mists his eyes. “No fate. Just choice. And I choose to follow God.”

  Cecily surprises me again by reaching across the table to hold his hand. He squeezes her fingers and keeps smiling at me.

  I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone quite like Keith Wilner.

  By the time we’ve finished and I’ve forced Raul Cortez, the owner of the place, to take payment (he wanted to let us have all that food for free, which I appreciate, but gracious, man, you have a family to feed!), we waddle back to Keith’s car. How we’re going to fit now, I have no idea.

  “That was amazing,” I say. “I ate way too much.”

  “Perhaps now you can sleep through your visit with your grandmother.” Cecily clambers into the backseat.

  I blink at her.

  Was that—another joke?

  Seriously. Where is Cecily Coburn, and who is this personable girl who has replaced her?

  I climb into the seat. “Thanks for taking me.” I look to Keith. “I’ll have to tell Aaron about that for sure. He loves trying new places to eat.”

  Keith beams again. “We’ve all been working so hard at the house, we haven’t had much of a chance to get to know each other.”

  I smile.

  He points the car back toward church, and I sink back into the upholstery of the passenger seat.

  Even though we hadn’t really gotten to talk much, I feel like I know Keith a bit better now. He’s easy and calm. He likes people. Actually enjoys being around them. And, what’s more, he actually likes Cecily. Maybe more than likes her, and that’s just bizarre and wonderful at the same time.

  The tattoos on his neck stretch and fold as he turns his head.

  I still don’t know much about his past, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe who he used to be is less important than who he is now. And who he is now loves talking Spanish to feisty Salvadoran grandmothers, working hard on projects that will benefit the people who helped him, and spending time with Cecily, who no one has ever loved spending time with.

  If those aren’t the marks of a decent guy, I don’t know what is.

  He pulls up to my purple Buick and parks. “I’m glad you came with us, Trisha.”

  “Yeah, me too.” I set my hand on the door. “Maybe we can go again once Aaron is back in town.”

  “I like it.” Keith nods and glances to the back seat. “Double date?”

  Cecily smiles. A real, deep, genuine smile that brightens her face and makes her eyes shine.

  “That would be nice.” I meet her smile with my own. “Thanks, guys.”

  I climb out of the car, both Cecily and Keith wave at me, and they drive off. Standing in the empty parking lot with my purple Buick, I fold my arms around my purse and smile.

  I misjudged Keith.

  I must have.

  Surely no one who is so kind and gentle with other people could be making trouble. I’m just getting suspicious and crotchety in my old age.

  My phone beeps from inside my purse.

  That’s my reminder to go pick up Gran.

  I fish my keys out and open my car door, sliding into the driver’s seat and adjusting my rearview mirror. In the back seat, Herb the Skeleton gawks at me, salmon-colored floppy hat askew on his bald skull.

  Aaron had thought it was so funny he’d belted the skeleton in and taped a can of Coke in the skeleton’s grip. It took me a whole day to stop jumping every time I checked my mirror.

  “We’re going to get Gran now, okay, Herb?” I arch an eyebrow at him. “You be on your best behavior.”

  Yes, it’s perfectly normal to have conversations with the skeleton in your backseat.

  I start the Buick and buckle myself in, and I pointedly ignore the way Herb’s loose jaw waggles at me as though he’s laughing. Because it’s one thing to have a conversation with a skeleton. Believing that the skeleton is talking back is something entirely different.

  My Gran Is Cooler Than Your Gran

  “Who’s the bad boy?” Gran lowers the visor and tilts the mirror on it until she can get a good look at the skeleton in the backseat.

  “That’s Herb.”

  “I like his hat.”

  “So does he.”

  “He’s a little thin for me.” Gran’s eyes twinkle. “You should feed him better. Get some meat on those bones.”

  I shake my head and laugh. Of all my family members, Gran is legitimately the only one who would find me having a skeleton in my backseat funny. This is probably why I’m the one who takes her grocery shopping. My other sisters—well, it’s not that they don’t get along with Gran. It’s that they don’t have the same sense of humor.

  They think Gran is insulting and rude.

  I think she’s hysterical.

  “Where’d you dig him up?” Gran folds her thin, shaking hands in her lap.

  “Oh, we found him in a closet.”

  Gran tuts unhappily. “Oh dear. That’s
not the place to be looking for men, Patricia.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m not looking for men, Gran.”

  “You shouldn’t be. Not with that hunky Guinness boy at your beck and call.”

  Last year, Gran and my latest friend off the streets, Avecita Alvarez, had come to a caretaking agreement. Not that my grandma was incapable of taking care of herself, but there were a few general life things that she couldn’t do on her own. But after a year, Avecita had finished an associate’s degree, and she had an opportunity to go to college. A four-year college in Kansas City. She felt like it was a good move for her, and we had agreed.

  So Avecita had gone to college, and Gran moved in with us.

  Really, it’s thrilling. Honestly, the entertainment never ends.

  I climb out of the car and grab Gran’s walker from the trunk as she swings her legs out of the passenger side. The walker was a new development in the last six months. Even a year ago, Gran hadn’t needed it, but times change. In the last six months, we’ve all tried to adjust to the walker’s necessity in our lives as cheerfully as possible.

  Gran had affectionately named it Cordell. And we automatically know how old someone is by whether or not they laugh when we tell them.

  We amble into the grocery store, and I dig my list out of my bag, muttering as I re-read it. No matter how carefully I try to keep track of the list, I always manage to forget some item of great importance. I’ve tried list apps on my phone with no success. I’ve done everything I can to be better organized. Nothing works.

  Ruth has suggested that the only solution is for me to get a brain transplant.

  I’m tempted to agree with her.

  I snag a small basket and maneuver it into the produce department, parking it by a towering stack of cantaloupes while I grab two pre-cut bags of broccoli and toss them into the basket.