Remission

by Ofelia Martinez

  I smile reassuringly at her. “Sure,” I say. “No worries.”

  “I do have a few concerns about your eligibility,” Mandy says, and my stomach drops.

  No. She can’t turn me away now. This is my best shot. The only one I want to take. I can’t be kicked off the clinical trial before I’ve even started. My mouth dries up as I try to focus on her words. I picked this trial—and Dr. Ramirez—because it is the most aggressive cervical cancer treatment anywhere, and I want to be as aggressive as possible.

  “You’re a very special case, and Dr. Ramirez agreed to make some exceptions for you, but I want to reiterate that this process will be very difficult. Are you sure there isn’t any support system you can count on? A friend, perhaps? You’ll need someone to care for you after hospitalizations and drive you when you are too sedated after appointments.”

  “I’ll be able to hire help as needed. That sounded really stuck-up. That’s the American expression, yes? Stuck-up?” Mandy nods. “I just mean I have family in Mexico who is paying for my treatment and resources while I’m here. I’ll be able to hire nurses and drivers as needed, and besides, my apartment is only two blocks from here. I wouldn’t compromise my eligibility into the trial. If it’s money you are worried about, I understand none of my treatment is covered under the trial. Since I don’t have medical insurance, I’ve given deposits already, but if you want, I’m happy to pay in full in advance.”

  Mandy’s eyes soften, but I don’t mind it as much as I would anyone else’s sympathy. I couldn’t stand Mom or Dad looking at me like that. I definitely couldn’t stand Chema or my sister Pilar looking at me like that, so I keep it all to myself.

  “It’s more than that,” Mandy says. “You’ll want some emotional support.”

  “I don’t want anyone to know. Not unless they absolutely have to—if the treatment fails.”

  “Okay. I’m following protocol, making sure you are going to have all the support you will need. But I’ll take your word for it that you have it figured out.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that. And I do. Really,” I reassure her.

  “Okay, then. Are you ready to meet Dr. Ramirez?”

  I nod, and Mandy walks me to an exam room. I wait, shivering in the hospital gown Mandy provided before she left, until Dr. Ramirez announces her presence with a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” I say.

  In walks a stunningly beautiful Amazon of a woman. I press my lips together to avoid gawking at her. She is tall and has muscular legs I would kill for—I can tell even through her scrub bottoms. I’m only a flyweight at one-hundred-and-twenty-five pounds, but I bet she is a bantamweight, or maybe even a featherweight, if she were a fighter. She wears a white coat over her blue scrubs. Her hair is up in a ponytail of straight dark-brown tresses that almost hit her waist, and she has the most expressive eyebrows I have ever seen on a woman.

  “Hola Valentina. Soy la doctora Ramirez. ¿Prefieres español?”

  “English is fine.”

  Dr. Ramirez smiles with what seems like relief. “Good. I’m Dr. Carolina Ramirez. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says. Her amber eyes hold my gaze, and I can’t help but smile back. I’m already at ease.

  Dr. Ramirez grabs the chair in the corner and rolls it over to sit in front of me. “I’ve gone over your chart, and it sounds like your case is an excellent fit for the trial,” she says.

  I let out a breath, feeling more reassured that I have done the right thing by coming here and seeking her out.

  She finishes my physical exam and pelvic exam, and I sit up to close the gown once again. I wrap myself in the flimsy cloth that does nothing to warm my skin.

  “We’re retaking some images. So long as there is no change, we will be able to start treatment this week as part of the trial.”

  What she means by ‘change’ is if the cancer has progressed further. There’s still a chance this could go the other way, but I nod because Dr. Ramirez’s presence is somehow reassuring, and I’m feeling calmer than I thought I would.

  “It’s part of the trial protocol, but I have to ask again,” she says. “Are you sure you understand the trial treatment is more aggressive than the standard of care, which is still an option for you at this point? This trial will take a toll on you.”

  “I know, doctor. I want to be as aggressive as humanly possible.”

  “There’s one last concern I have,” she says. “I’m sorry, I must insist, you are so young and with no children. You understand the radiation will more than likely render you unable to conceive naturally?”

  “Yes. Mandy went over all my pre-trial plan options.”

  “I’m willing to wait a few weeks if you want to freeze your eggs.”

  “Won’t we risk the cancer spreading further?”

  “That is a risk. Yes. But if having children at some point is important to you, I want to make sure I’m also advocating for what you’ll need to have a happy life.”

  I smile. She wants to make sure that if she saves my life, she’s not leaving me with a miserable one. “Look,” I say. “I’ve never given any thought to children. I may one day want children, but I don’t need that child to be biological. There are many children in the world in need of good parents.” I don’t say that I have chosen family I love more than bloodline family. “I’ll be very happy with adoption if children ever become important.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s do this.”

  Four hours of waiting and several scans later, I finally get to leave the hospital. It was all cold metal, shivering, and waiting in exam rooms, but it’s not my first rodeo. I already went through all of this in Mexico when I first received my diagnosis.

  I stand in front of the hospital, unsure of my next steps. Less than twenty-four hours in Kansas City, and for what is probably the first time in my adult life, I don’t have a schedule to keep.

  Pulling out my phone, I call a car with my car service app. I ask the driver to take me to any street with multiple car dealerships, and he drops me off in front of a Ford dealership. I look down the busy boulevard, flanked by dealerships, feeling daunted at all the options. I shrug. When in Rome . . . or in this case, America. I walk into the Ford dealership, and a nice old man hooks me up with a used but reliable Ford sedan. I could probably afford new, but I don’t want to take advantage.

  I had ordered furniture to be delivered to my apartment, but it won’t show up until tomorrow. Realizing I need essentials, I pull up the navigation app on my phone and roll away in my new pre-owned car. The salesman was adamant it isn’t ‘used.’

  After shopping, it takes three trips to get all of my supplies into my new barren apartment. I was shocked at how expensive rent is in the U.S., but being close to the hospital was a priority. I opted for a two-bedroom, thinking if it came to it, I could rent out one of the rooms to offset some of my expenses. I could only ask my sister for so much money before she got suspicious. Not that she wouldn’t give it in a heartbeat if I told her what was going on, but I’m not ready to tell her.

  I plop on the cream duvet over the white carpet, not sure I will be able to sleep on the floor—first time for everything, I guess. Once chemo and radiation start, wine will be off-limits, so I went to town at the grocery store’s liquor section.

  Uncorking the bottle of merlot, I sip straight from the bottle as I sit in my dark apartment. On the second floor, the apartment faces the busier side of the street. Two restaurants and a small used bookshop sit directly below, and I wonder if they call the books ‘pre-owned’ too.

  The coolness of the glass in the floor-to-ceiling windows soothes my skin as I press my arm against it to look down the street. There are a few bars, and it’s late enough that people are starting to go inside with broad smiles and flirty looks.

  It’s a beautiful city, and I wish I had come here under different circumstances. Now all I will have as souvenirs will be the bitter memories of cancer treatment.

  I take a long pull from the bottle of wine,
not caring when some of it spills from the corners of my mouth and down my chin, splattering over the white duvet. I’ll get a new one tomorrow. I press my forehead to the glass and hug the bottle to my body while I look at the lights of the city night.

  My phone is on silent mode, so I don’t hear it when it rings, but the bright glow in the dark apartment signals the incoming call. I block the light with one hand as I grab the phone with the other. Pili is displayed on the screen—my nickname for my older sister Pilar. I’ve called her Pili since I was four-years-old, and she’s hated it ever since.

  “Tini?” I hear on the other end when I pick up. I hate her nickname for me as much as she hates mine for her. We would both benefit from a truce, but we are both too stubborn.

  I roll my eyes. “Hi, Pili. How are you?”

  “You promised you would call me when you landed yesterday, and I never heard from you,” Pilar whines.

  “I’m sorry. Been busy with training and all. I was actually about to call you—”

  “Sure you were,” she huffs. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “How’s it going? Are you settled in? How’s the new coach? Give me an update!”

  I suppose as my benefactor, she deserves information. “I just got here, but yes, everything’s fine,” I lie. “I got my apartment keys yesterday, furniture comes tomorrow, and I’ve been training all day.”

  “Furniture tomorrow?” She yells, appalled, and I pull the phone away from my ear for a second after her shriek. “You should have stayed in a hotel until then. Do you need more money?” she asks.

  “No. You’ve given me more than enough. Don’t worry.” A million dollars should cover treatment and living expenses in the U.S., shouldn’t it? I couldn’t ask her for more. I just couldn’t, not even knowing she could spare five times that amount without batting an eye.

  “You sound tired.”

  “Yeah, training right after a long day of flying can really take it out of you, you know?” I never lied to my sister before my diagnosis, and I am surprised at how easily it all rolls off my tongue.

  “And when are you going to tell Chema?”

  I wince. “Soon. I need to find the right time to—”

  “The right time was when you were here. In person. I hate to tell you this, Tini, but you are a little shit for not being upfront with him. He deserves to know you got an agent and a new coach. You basically just ghosted him.”

  She isn’t saying anything that isn’t true about me being a shit, though nothing about the agent or coach is true—that’s my cover. I rub my temples. “I know. Trust me. I know. I’ll tell him soon.”

  “I miss you,” she says.

  “Me too.” Guilt washes over me for leaving her alone. My brother-in-law doesn’t allow her to go out with her friends, and I’m one of the few people he does let visit her. I’ve left her more isolated than ever. He wouldn’t have allowed her to come with me for treatment. Of that much, I was sure. Not unless he could come too, and if there is a last person in the world I wouldn’t want to see, it is Felipe Conde, followed closely by Dad. “I’ll call more often,” I promise.

  “Good night.”

  “Night, Pili.”

  Half of the bottle of wine is gone, and I pour the rest down the sink before bedtime. I lay down on my makeshift sleeping bag next to the window and stare at the smooth ceiling. Taking deep breaths, I repeat my intentions over and over into the echoes of the empty apartment, exactly as I would do before any fight.

  “Get back to fighting.”

  “Beat the shit out of cancer.”

  “Get back to fighting.”

  “Live.”

  Contusion Excerpt

  Chapter Two

  Nothing appetizing takes up space in my fridge. After extensive research, I bought groceries to pack on the pounds. My one-hundred-and-twenty-five pounds are all muscle, and I know I’ll lose weight once chemo and radiation start. I need to gain some weight before I start treatment. I’ll have a hell of a time fattening up after an entire adulthood of balancing food to keep muscle up and fat down. I bought all the things the internet suggested, all high in calories, proteins, and fat, but low in volume. I look at the eggs, olives, butter, peanut butter—why are there so many butters?—avocados, and whole milk. None of it seems to go together, so I close the fridge and hit the shower to go out to breakfast instead.

  The furniture delivery service won’t arrive until after ten, so I have time to explore the neighborhood and grab a bite. I hardly slept a wink as I thought about my web of lies, but I didn’t want to waste any more of my precious time sleeping.

  Kansas City is flat. At least compared to the tall buildings of my home city. None of the structures in this neighborhood are taller than a few stories, except for the hospital that reaches a whopping seven floors and sticks out above everything else on this street. Also, unlike my home city, greenery flanks almost every road.

  I’m surprised when I find a gym not too far from my apartment. I look through the window, itching to go in, but what’s the point? I can’t get a membership. It’s not a fighting gym of any kind, but it would be better than nothing. I watch men and women go in, and I get a few friendly hellos. Maybe I could get a week’s membership and just come to lift weights until the treatment starts? I’m getting ready to open the door when I hear a voice behind me.

  “Don’t even think about it.” I turn like the kid caught with my hands in the masa to find Dr. Ramirez and Mandy staring at me. Dr. Ramirez’s arms are crossed over her chest, and one of her brows is arched in warning. Mandy is pressing her lips together, suppressing laughter at this exchange.

  “I-um, I wasn’t going to go—”

  “Yes, you were,” says Dr. Ramirez.

  I hang my head with shame. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “You’re supposed to be softening up and trying to gain as much weight as possible this week.”

  “I know. I know. I just don’t know how to not do what I was born to do.” I smile lamely at the women, and we all ignore my eyes misting over.

  “We’re just going for breakfast,” Mandy steps in just in time to avoid my tears spilling over. “You’re coming with us.” She isn’t asking. She grabs my arm and laces hers through mine, tugging me away from the first place that has looked like home since I got here.

  “Are you going to work today?” I ask as I sit in front of the two women looking at their menus.

  “Yes,” Mandy says. “We grab breakfast together Monday mornings. You’re welcome to join us.”

  “Thank you, I might do that,” I say, relieved to have someone to talk to besides a bottle of wine.

  “So, are you really a UFC fighter?” Mandy asks with interest and much too loudly.

  “Mandy,” Dr. Ramirez scolds. “I don’t think Valentina wants to talk about that.”

  I look between the two women who couldn’t be more different. Mandy is short and has unruly wavy hair in a chocolaty dark brown shade. It’s almost witchy as the tresses stir with her movements. Her skin is a smooth, cool-toned light brown. Her rectangular face meets in a square jaw, and she has one of the widest smiles I have ever seen. She is almost my height and definitely much shorter than Dr. Ramirez.

  It’s not just their physicality that is polar-opposite either. Dr. Ramirez moves with grace and sits with impeccable posture, while Mandy looks a bit frumpy and slouches in her seat, making her seem that much shorter. But what she lacks in physical height, Mandy makes up for in volume. Mandy is loud. So loud it’s almost embarrassing, and I can’t help but look at the other diners when she speaks.

  I take a deep breath and answer Mandy. “No. I wasn’t a UFC fighter yet. I was starting to get close—before—well, before everything happened.”

  “I’m sorry, amiga,” she says and reaches across the table to grab my hand.

  I smile at her choice of words and hope she is sincere because, lord help me, I’m going to need a friend.

  When the waiter comes to o
ur table, Dr. Ramirez snatches the menu from my hands, and my brows knit together.

  “I’ll be ordering for her,” says Dr. Ramirez. “She’ll have two fried eggs over-medium. Hash-browns, Texas toast with butter, two slices of bacon, and one biscuit on the side with gravy, if you have it.”

  “And for you, ma’am?” the waiter asks Dr. Ramirez.

  “I’ll have the spinach-egg white omelet with avocado slices and half a grapefruit,” says Dr. Ramirez.

  I blink at her, and Mandy throws her head back with a roar of laughter so magnified, several rows of tables turn to stare at us. I sink in my chair.

  The heaping plate of food set before me doesn’t look even a little appealing. I tug the plate, and the mountain of food jiggles. “Do I really have to eat this?” I ask.

  “As much as you can, within reason,” says Dr. Ramirez.

  I turn my attention to a glob of something white that seems to have bits of sausage in it. “What is that?” I ask. It looks revolting, and despite my hunger, my stomach churns at the sight of it.

  Mandy laughs again. “That’s biscuits and gravy,” she says with a bright, toothy smile. “Welcome to America.”

  “There’s no way I’m eating that,” I say.

  “Fine,” says Dr. Ramirez. “But eat as much as you can of the rest. Have a milkshake later, if you can, for a snack. When you find it hard to eat in volume, you’ll be glad you can drink some calories.”

  “It’s true,” Mandy adds. “A few weeks from now, you’ll be sending me on an errand to get you this very breakfast, and you won’t be able to keep it down.”

  I take the fork and knife, one in each hand. You can do this, Vale. I pep myself, and Mandy roars with laughter again. My glare rises to her, and she presses her lips together.

  “It’s not so bad,” says Mandy. “You’ll see.”

  And it really isn’t. It’s greasy, and I’m not used to it, but I stop when I’m comfortable, and Dr. Ramirez nods with approval at the amount I manage to devour.