Contusion

by Ofelia Martinez

  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.”

  Chapter 2

  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 reach
es 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 our 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.

  “Well, ladies,” she says. “I have to get to work. Mandy, why don’t you take the morning off? You haven’t used any vacation time in a while.”

  “Thanks, boss,” Mandy says, between mouthfuls of the pancakes she ordered, before Dr. Ramirez leaves us alone.

  When we ask for our checks, the waiter informs us that both our tabs have been taken care of.

  “Dr. Ramirez is generous like that,” says Mandy. “Sometimes too generous. People tend to want to walk over her.”

  “Don’t take advantage. Noted.”

  As we make our way outside, I ask Mandy something that crossed my mind during breakfast. “Hey, is it okay for us to socialize outside the hospital?”

  “Not with Dr. R. Today was fine, but she won’t be hanging out with us on the regular. She needs to keep a line drawn between her personal life and her patients. But I’m cool.”

  “You won’t get in trouble?”

  “No. I don’t handle patient care or anything like that. The hospital won’t have a problem if we’re friends, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  We are on the sidewalk, and Mandy stands in front of me. “So, what would you like to do? Seems I’m free this morning.”

  I shrug. “I was just planning on exploring the neighborhood a bit.”

  “That’s great.” Mandy starts to rattle off suggestions on which direction we should take when I see the glint of red hair walking in our direction. The man in front of him walks into a shop, and I can clearly make out Rory—the guy who saved my Pop-Tart. He is looking at his phone and hasn’t seen us yet, and for some reason, I don’t want him to.

  “Let’s go there,” I quip and grab her arm as I haul her across the street and into the used-book store. I look out the window as Rory passes by, swallowed in a crowd of people.

  When we are safely inside the bookshop, Mandy flashes me a funny look. “Okay, weirdo. What was that?”

  “Just this guy I met the other day—”

  “Oooh, a guy? Which one is it?” She cranes her neck after the group of people crossing the street. “Is he cute?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I can’t really date now, can I?”

  “No, but enjoy your sex-drive while you can. Trust me. It’s going to take a bit of a vacation once you start treatment. Everyone handles it differently, but your body will change a lot. Sex will be the last thing on your mind.”

  I’m so stunned at her directness, I change the subject. “Well, I have to get back. I have furniture deliveries today.”

  “Oh, I’ll come with. I can help move things around.”

  “You really don’t have to.”

  “I want to.” And just like that, Mandy invites herself over.

  As we walk to my apartment, it dawns on me I don’t know her full name. “What’s your last name?”

  “In case you have to give the cops a description?”

  “What? No!” I laugh. “I just—I like to know my friend’s names.”

  “Gomez. Amanda Gomez.”

  When she walks into my apartment, Mandy whistles. “This is nice,” she bellows but stretches the word ‘nice’ into two syllables. “I knew you were rich, but this is . . . I think only surgeons live in this building.”

  I stiffen. She already knows the trial requires patient insurance or upfront out-of-pocket deposits for treatment and hospital stays. This shouldn’t be a surprise to her.

  “I’m sorry,” she hastens to apologize. “I’m working on my filter. It’s not very good yet.”

  “How old are you?” I ask.

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “Twenty-eight? You don’t look it.” It’s hard to believe she is older than me. I laugh nervously. “And no worries about the filter, but no, I’m not rich. My sister is. She’s bankrolling my treatment.” Without her knowledge, I think, but don’t offer Mandy that information.

  “Oh yeah? What does she do?” Mandy walks around the apartment on a self-led tour as we talk. She grins when she sees the kitchen with its marble island and brand new appliances. The white subway tile backsplash particularly catches her eye. Then she walks from room to room, making sounds of appreciation at each one.

  “Nothing. That sounds bad. I don’t mean ‘nothing.’ She’s a homemaker.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” Mandy says with a wide, toothy smile that is growing on me. She pops a piece of gum in her mouth and talks through the chewing. “My mom is too. She’s amazing. So your sister, she married money or something?”

  “Sort of. I mean, she did. Her husband owns a company in Mexico, but she has her own money.”

  “From what?” Mandy asks.

  Geesh. She wasn’t kidding about the filter. Is it common for Americans to talk about money like this? “From her dowry,” I say like it’s the most natural thing in the world, but I know it isn’t.

  “Her dowry?” Mandy’s jaw drops, flashing me the pink bubblegum in her mouth. “Like Jane Austen and shit?”

  I laugh. “Yeah, Mexico had colonizers too. They brought their dowry ideas with them.”

  “No shit?” she says and plops herself on the floor as she leans on the wall for a back-rest.

  “No shit,” I say.

  “Will you get one too?” she asks.

  “What?”

  “A dowry.”

  My nose crinkles, and I shake my head. “Nope. Don’t think so. There’s a clause Dad has to approve of my husband-to-be, and to Dad, it means he gets to pick him out.”

  “So your Dad has money?”

  I side-eye her. “Yeah. He does,” I say with resignation.

  “So I was right before. You’re a rich girl.”

  “I’m really not. I was starting to get sponsors and handle my own money that I earned before I got sick.”

  “Hey, I didn’t mean
anything by it. I’m honestly just curious. I don’t give a shit one way or the other.”

  “You say ‘shit’ a lot.”

  “Yeah. I like to cuss when I’m not at work or at home because it’s the only time I can.”

  “Why can’t you cuss at home?” I ask.

  “I have a thirteen-year-old baby brother.”

  She lives at home? At twenty-eight? That can’t be right, but I’m not comfortable asking such personal questions. “You know he’s probably cussing already.”

  “Oh yeah, he says shit way worse than me. But my parents still think he’s a sweet little innocent angel.”

  “Got it.”

  “Where’d you go?” Mandy snaps her fingers in front of my face when I stay quiet too long.

  I’m now sitting next to her on the floor, and I know I checked out of the conversation. “Sorry. Just thinking about what’s ahead.”

  “Hey, don’t worry. Dr. Ramirez is amazing. You are going to be fine.”

  “How do you know so much? I mean, you mentioned about the food and drinking calories and then the sex drive thing. Do research assistants usually know so much about the trials?”

  “Yeah. I also keep the database of adverse events. If any trial participants experience side effects, they call me, and I add them to the database. Expected side effects are par for the course, but if they are unexpected, we have to monitor those closely.”

  “I see.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  I side-eye her. “I have a feeling you will even if I don’t say yes.”

  Her toothy grin spreads, but then her face turns serious. “How come you didn’t tell any of your family or friends?”

  I think about that for a moment, trying to find the right words. “I don’t want this to define me. I was a rising star in my field, as fresa as that sounds. Everyone in my life has a perception of me as the strong one. I can’t now be the sick one.”

  The doorbell rings, ending our conversation, and I’m glad I don’t have to keep explaining something I’m in the process of trying to understand myself. I make my way to the intercom, and a man’s voice fills the living room. “I have a delivery for Valentina Almonte.”