Contusion

by Ofelia Martinez

  “I take it you don’t like to watch sports?”

  He shakes his head. “Normally no. I prefer to be active rather than sit and watch others be active, but that fight was pretty epic.”

  He picks another movie after that, but I fall asleep on him. When I wake up, I’m lying down on the sofa with my duvet over me, and Rory is in the kitchen heating up some of the soup. He brings it to the coffee table along with a small plate of crackers and a tall glass of water.

  “I’d feel better if you ate something.” He smiles at me, and it’s all the encouragement I need.

  “All right,” I say. “I’ll try.”

  The soup is eons better than the soup at the hospital, and I ask Rory where he got it so I can get some more.

  “Oh no. I’m not giving you my secrets. You want this soup, you’ll have to go through me.”

  I laugh and take another spoonful. I had been afraid to eat after my night at the hospital, but now that I was eating, my hunger opened up with a vengeance. Setting the spoon on the coffee table, I start drinking straight from the bowl like a savage.

  Rory laughs next to me.

  “Thank you,” I say. “That was good.”

  He smiles. “You betcha.”

  After insisting with a look of warning that I am quite capable of cleaning up, I take the dishes to the sink, and soap suds drip from my hands when something in my stomach churns. I run to the toilet and barely make it in time.

  The soup comes out nearly in the same state it went in, and it is revolting. I feel a hand on my back, and I push him away. “No,” I manage to say. “I don’t want you seeing me like this.” I wave him away with my head hovering over the toilet bowl.

  “Valentina, this doesn’t bother me. Please, let me be here.” He pulls my hair back so it’s not dangling into the toilet bowl just in time for round two of the soup rejection.

  I close the lid to the bowl and sit back as I wipe my mouth. “Real sexy, aren’t I?” I say, attempting a joke, but Rory’s face is all concern. “I really wish you hadn’t seen that.”

  “Like I said, it doesn’t bother me. Normally I would respect your wishes, but I know you don’t have any family here.”

  “Can I have a moment to clean up a bit?”

  Rory scratches his jaw through his beard, then nods. “Yeah, I’m just out here if you need anything, okay?”

  “Thanks, doc.”

  After brushing my teeth and taking a shower, I find Rory scrolling through his phone. He looks up at me with a face-splitting smile that melts me.

  “Better?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What else do you want to watch?”

  “I’m actually kind of sick of the TV for today.”

  “Okay. We can just chat.”

  “Sure . . .” I say reluctantly. “What about?”

  “Anything. Let’s see. Oh, I know. What’s your favorite band?”

  I smile, glad for the change in subject. “Easy. Industrial November. I always thought my walkout song would be either Metal Red Day or Welded Dragons.”

  “Those would be good fighting songs. I’m surprised, though. You listen to them in Mexico?”

  “They’re much bigger in Mexico City than they are here, I’ll tell you that much.”

  “Well, yeah. Maybe not so much in the Midwest, but they have fans in the U.S. too.”

  “What about your favorite band?” I ask, content with the easy conversation topic that is also somehow really revealing.

  “I have a lot. Let’s see, well, lately I’ve been listening to a lot of Kidneythieves.”

  My eyes widen. “What?”

  “You never heard of them?”

  “That can’t be a real band name,” I say, horrified.

  “Yep. That’s their name—pretty good band too.”

  “I don’t care how good they are; that’s a horrible band name.”

  “It’s not like we play it in the dialysis clinic,” Rory deadpans, and we both roar with laughter.

  “You laugh at really inappropriate things.”

  He shrugs. “Yeah. I have a pretty dark sense of humor sometimes. I guess I understand life is grim enough without us trying to make it dimmer. You know?”

  “Would you laugh at anything?”

  “Probably.”

  “What about death?”

  “Yeah. I see myself laughing at death in the right circumstances.”

  “What about when I die?” I ask, not giving away I’m serious. “Will you laugh then?”

  He looks at me, and a smile plays at the corners of his mouth. He does that a lot, giving away he is about to tell a joke like he needs to smile before sharing it. “That depends on how you die,” he says, and we both laugh again.

  I yawn, and Rory carries me to bed. He returns my duvet to the bed and tucks me in before placing a glass of water on my nightstand. “I’m still worried you’ll get dehydrated. Please try to keep down some water, okay?” He kisses my forehead in the sweetest gesture any man has ever displayed for me, and I nod.

  I drift off to sleep with a smile on my face.

  Chapter 9

  Mandy’s house is loud—so loud. Just like her. We sit at the table with her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Gomez, though they insisted I call them Enrique and Ana as soon as Mandy introduced us.

  Mrs. Gomez—Ana—runs from the kitchen to the table as she piles tortillas onto the tortilla warmer in the center of the table.

  “Mateo!” Ana screams at the top of her lungs, and a young man’s voice bellows from down the hall in response.

  “One second!”

  “Sorry, Valentina,” Ana says. “This kid drives me crazy sometimes.” She offers me a sheepish smile, and I ask her to please not worry on my account.

  “I’m so hungry I could eat a cow,” says Enrique.

  “Mom makes the best albondiga soup,” Mandy says. “I thought a light broth might be good for you.” She squeezes my forearm, and my heart swells that the menu was catered to me.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I haven’t had any food that tastes like home in a while.”

  “Especially not at the hospital,” Mandy adds.

  I shiver at the memory.

  “Mateo!” Ana yells again, her frustration growing on her face each time she has to yell her son’s name. She tosses another pile of tortillas onto the heap and plops in her chair, a bit out of breath.

  Ana is beautiful, and Mandy looks a lot like her. They have the same small frame with a lean muscular build, though Mandy’s tanned skin is a shade darker, more like her dad’s.

  “Ama!” Mateo yells as he walks toward the dinner table. “I had to save my game.”

  “We have guests,” Ana hisses.

  Mateo and Ana continue to argue, and Enrique starts asking Amanda about work, ignoring the argument ensuing on the other side of the table. Each set of conversations has to raise an octave when the other conversation takes over the dining room’s sound until they are all but screaming. I resist the urge to wince because it is also a little bit funny. I see now why Mandy is so loud.

  The smack over his head silences Mateo once and for all, and he scowls.

  “Hi, Mateo. I’m Valentina,” I say to insert myself in the conversation.

  “Hi,” he says, looking down at his dinner.

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirteen,” he seethes.

  Mandy shakes her head at her little brother. “I’m going to have Valentina kick your ass,” she says and smiles.

  Mateo laughs. “She’s a girl!” He snaps as if that disqualifies me from the job, and I press my lips together.

  “She’s an MMA fighter,” Mandy says, crossing her arms.

  Mateo’s head snaps up with wide eyes like he can’t believe what his sister just said. His gaze scans my arms, sizing me up, no doubt. “No way,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re too small.”

  “Yes, way,” I say. “But I won’t kick your ass. I promise.”

  He smiles at me, and for t
he rest of the dinner, he can hardly look in my direction.

  “So,” Ana says, “Mandy tells me you are getting treatment at Heartland Metro,”

  “That’s right—”

  “Mami! I told you she doesn’t want to talk about that,” Mandy says.

  “It’s okay,” I smile reassuringly at Ana. “I don’t mind. Thank you for having me over for dinner. It’s nice to eat with someone.”

  “All your family’s in Mexico?”

  I nod.

  Ana’s face twists like she is angry I’m alone.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “They don’t know about my treatment, or they would be here.”

  “I’m sure they would like to know—” Enrique says.

  “Papi!” Mandy huffs, and I have to laugh. “Sorry,” she says with an apologetic look of embarrassment.

  “It’s okay, Mandy. Your parents can ask me questions.” I smile at them both. “Ana, the soup is delicious, by the way.”

  Ana smiles at me and digs into her own bowl.

  Thankfully, Mandy manages to steer the conversation away from me. She hogs the attention, bringing everyone up to speed on her art show.

  I listen halfheartedly as I watch this family that is so close my heart constricts. Why can’t my family be like this? I would gladly give up the wealth of my upbringing if it meant we could have healthy relationships—if it meant we could be close.

  So many ‘if’s’ that would mean they would be here right now because I would have told them about my illness.

  But I look at Enrique as he listens to his daughter talk about her art, and I know my father could never be like that. Enrique clearly has no idea what half the things she says mean, but he listens intently and offers encouraging words. Her mother, too, throws in a comment or two of support and several of pride. They don’t understand Mandy’s ambitions, but they support her anyway. Families can actually be like this? A longing for something I will never have creeps up and lodges in my throat.

  Halfway through dinner, Mandy yells at her brother once again. “Give it back—or else!” she threatens.

  “No,” he sticks his tongue out at her. “You know the rules.”

  I blink as I stare at the fighting siblings. Enrique bites his lip as he tries to suppress his laughter, making his black mustache wiggle.

  “House rules,” he explains at seeing my confusion plain on my face. “Hold on to your tortilla, especially when the stack is getting low,” he points with his gaze at the tortilla warmer. I lift the lid to peek inside, and sure enough, there are none left.

  Ana holds on to her spoon with one hand and clutches her own tortilla in the other. She takes a sip of water, but to do this, she lets go of the spoon, not the tortilla. She raises her glass toward me, showing that she is the victor of the game. I laugh.

  Mandy must have kicked Mateo under the table because he drops both spoon and what’s left of the tortilla on the table as he chokes on his last slurp of the broth. Enrique doesn’t even skip a beat. He lunges forward and reaches for the tortilla that Mateo dropped on the table, snagging it just before Mandy’s hand could get to it.

  “Dad! That was mine!” Mandy is frustrated now, and Enrique gives me a little salute with the piece of tortilla left, and I lose it.

  I laugh so hard and so long, they all stare at me. “I’m happy to get up and heat up more,” I say through the laughter.

  “That’s not the point,” Enrique explains. “By the time whoever heats up more, they will trickle back to the table rather slowly. There are only so many tortillas you can fit on the stovetop at a time. You wait long enough, your food gets cold.”

  I nod at the simple explanation, and I can’t suppress the laughter again, but they join me this time.

  “So finders keepers is the rule?”

  Enrique nods.

  The turn of keys at the front door turns all our attention, and we watch as Izel marches in. She drops her purse on the couch and rushes to the table.

  She sits next to me and gives me a kiss on the cheek like we are old friends. “Hi, Vale,” she says, and I smile at the nickname—a sure sign she considers me her friend.

  I can’t tell if the happiness of this moment has my mind in shambles, but a swell of emotion overtakes me. It is so natural to be inserted into Mandy’s life. Izel looks at me like I’m not at all out of place in this family tableau, and I almost want to cry.

  I want to cry because Mom and Dad will never be like this. Because we will never be at a family dinner unless it’s an event Dad would force us to go to for publicity.

  If anything, this night only cements what I already knew: I did the right thing by not telling them anything.

  Chapter 10

  The treatments are going as well as can be expected, and I am faithful to the new regimen. My routine is solid. Every weekday, I go into the hospital for chemotherapy, and three times a week, I go in for radiation in addition to the chemo. So far, I’ve seen no signs of Rory, and no one has commented on my disguise of sunglasses and a hat as I walk through the lobby.

  My body is taking a hell of a beating, but Dr. Ramirez looks at me—and at my chart—with hope, so I push through the pain.

  I lost five pounds in the first week, and some days are better than others with nausea. Days when the chemo is combined with the radiation are the worst, especially the next day. Mandy was right about absolutely everything. I’m hungry and can hardly keep anything down half the time. Drinking calories has been somewhat helpful, but the pounds are still shedding off my body.

  I had radiation yesterday, and I haven’t been able to keep anything down today. I’m due at the hospital in an hour, and I have a raging headache.

  Rummaging through the cabinet, I grab for pain meds and stare at the vitamin bottle. Did I take my vitamins this morning like I was supposed to? I can’t remember, and I panic.

  Skipping vitamins one day isn’t the end of the world, but so far, I’ve treated treatment with the same discipline I used to treated training. Missing supplements is not an option for me or for my routine.

  The bottle rests next to the pain meds, and I grab them both. I stare between them, unsure why I grabbed them. My head pounds, and I remember the headache. I take two pain pills from the bottle and stare at the vitamin bottle again. What the hell is happening? My brain is misfiring, and I have no idea why. I shake my head, trying to clear it, and the movement makes the room spin.

  The floor moves from under my feet, and I’m about to topple over, so I grab the edge of the counter. I try to lick my cracked lips, but my tongue is dry. Fuck. I’m dehydrated.

  Holding on to the counter, I go to the sink and fill a glass. I try to chug it, but it only comes back up.

  I pull my phone out to call a car. Looks like I’m heading to the hospital early today.

  Nurse Sara replaces the IV fluids for the second time, and I look at her, a bit embarrassed.

  “It’s very common to get dehydrated when you can’t keep anything down,” she says soothingly.

  “Yeah. I know. I’m glad I noticed before I passed out.”

  “You did good. You need anything else for now?”

  “No. Thank you, Sara.”

  She walks out of my room, leaving me with my thoughts—another hospitalization. I get to stay overnight until I can keep down two full meals in a row. I’ll need to make another large deposit to the hospital. Hospital stays in the U.S. are much more expensive than I thought they would be. I’m so glad I asked Pilar for more money than I thought I’d need to be on the safe side, though I have no idea how the hell I’m going to pay her back.

  A new doctor I don’t know walks into my room, followed closely by Dr. Ramirez.

  “Valentina, how are you?” Dr. Ramirez asks.

  “I’ve been better,” I say dryly.

  She nods. “This is Dr. Medina. He will be the new attending on your case.”

  Dr. Medina is tall and handsome, and I don’t for one minute miss the twinkle in Dr. Ramirez’s eye when
she looks at him. I press my lips together because she can’t hide her feelings at all, and it’s adorable. Dr. Ramirez briefs Dr. Medina on my case like the residents do at morning rounds.

  “Nice to meet you, Miss Almonte,” Dr. Medina says. “I’m new to the clinical trial team, but we will see a lot of each other now that I am here.”

  Dr. Ramirez mentioned him earlier, when she was about to meet him. At the time, she thought he would be unattractive, but Dr. Medina is super hot for an older guy, and yet, I could see them together despite their age difference.

  When he sits to read my chart and turns away, I mouth to Dr. Ramirez that he is hot, and I bang the air to get a reaction out of her. Her eyes widen with horror, and she pins me with a look begging me to stop. I press my lips together to seal the laugh inside of me.

  “Thank you, doctor,” I say to Dr. Medina as they excuse themselves. I can’t wait to see how their relationship unfolds.

  I’m bored out of my mind the rest of the day and drift off to sleep by eight p.m. The next thing I know, I’m awakened for rounds at 6 a.m. I hate hospital stays. It’s been nice sleeping in for the first time in my adult life, but it never happens when I’m admitted overnight. It’s as if they like to start rounds with me, so I’m the earliest every day.

  The lights go on in my room, and the trail of footfalls follows. It’s usually one attending and seven to ten residents and interns. I groan and pull my pillow over my face with annoyance.

  Someone clears their throat, and I wave them to go on. A resident whose voice I don’t recognize starts presenting my case. I hate hearing it. Every time they mention the details of my case, I feel like the stupidest woman on earth. Who skips their pap tests? Who ignores symptoms?

  Me. I do all of those things, and my penance is my life. I only half-listen to the residents discussing my case. My philosophy on my involvement in my own treatment is likely as asinine as my prevention plan. I do what they say. All I ask is that they be aggressive with treatment and tell me where to be and what time.

  “Miss Almonte, please,” I recognize Dr. Medina’s voice now as he tries to get my attention.