Contusion

by Ofelia Martinez

  “What time is it?” I whine.

  “Six in the morning.”

  I huff and take the pillow off my face placing it behind me. I stare among the residents, only half of whom I recognize.

  “I hear you got a little dehydrated?” Dr. Medina asks as he glances through my medical chart.

  “Yeah. I noticed it quickly, though, and came to the hospital right away,” I say.

  Dr. Medina faces the students, asking for their proposed plans for keeping food and water in my stomach. They have barely begun pitching treatment plans when the squeak of sneakers rushing into the room draws the attention of the small army of doctors. Someone is late.

  And that someone is Rory.

  He is staring down at his tablet and looking disheveled. His red hair is a mess, like he just woke up, and his white coat is nowhere near as crisp as the other doctors.

  “Glad you could join us, Dr. Dennis,” Dr. Medina says.

  “Sorry, doctor. Won’t happen again,” Rory says as he squints at the room. He pats his pockets until he produces his glasses and brings them to his face.

  Everything happens around me, but not to me. I’m looking into the hospital room scene from a faraway window like an out of body experience. My stomach burns, and I would grab for the bedpan if I didn’t know there is absolutely nothing in my stomach that can come up right now.

  Rory freezes when his eyes land on me. His hands clench around the tablet in his hands, and he looks down, undoubtedly looking at my chart, confirming the name that belongs to the patient. He looks up at my face, back at the tablet, and back to my face, freezing his hold on my eyes on the last glance. I swallow hard, wincing at the painful dryness in my throat. His hands fall to his sides in resignation. I’m not sure if it’s the state of his crumpled doctor’s coat, his slouched posture, or the weakness of his arms dangling at his sides, but Rory gives the impression of a crumpled napkin, discarded on a dirty old street.

  The residents are mostly done with rounds by the time Rory arrives. I nod and say, “Sure, sure,” not knowing at all what they have said. They trickle out of the room until only Rory remains.

  His mouth parts like he is about to say something, then he shuts it again as he takes a step away from me. My eyes sting as I watch him withdraw. And it is so stupid because we barely know each other. It shouldn’t matter. I don’t care about him. He doesn’t care about me. Not really. So why the hell has this heavy ball of lead settled low in my stomach?

  “Rory, I—”

  “I have to catch up to the group,” he points with his thumb toward the door and leaves me alone.

  The long day drags after that. Pilar calls me around lunchtime.

  “When can I come to see you?” she asks.

  I know Felipe won’t let her, so I bluff. “Whenever you want.”

  “I’m going to try to manage it. I think next month, I can get away for a week or so. I want to see your new place, the gym, everything.”

  “All right,” I say, sure this will never happen.

  “How are you liking it there?”

  “It’s great. I’ve made a few friends.” Sticking with the positives will keep her at bay for a while.

  “That’s great, Tini! Tell me about them.”

  “Let’s see, there’s this girl, Mandy. She’s an artist. And her two cousins, Izel and Tlali. Izel writes horror, and Tlali translates novels.” I stick to describing them by their true trades instead of their day jobs. I’m afraid to even mention anything hospital-related to my sister.

  “How Bohemian.” Pilar sounds overjoyed. “And strange.”

  “Why strange?” I ask.

  “All your friends here are gym rats. This is different.”

  “New leaf and all that,” I say. “Trying new things. How about you, Pili? How are you doing? Really?”

  “You know me. I’m always fine.”

  “Pilar, come on. I want to know the truth.”

  “I just miss you, is all.”

  “I miss you too. You should really think about making some new friends too.”

  She laughs, but it’s bitter. “Do you think I could find some friends under the couch or in the kitchen?”

  I wince. She is basically a prisoner in her fancy tower. “I’m sorry,” I say. “That was insensitive.”

  “Don’t worry about me. My problems aren’t really problems.”

  “Just because you are wealthy and don’t lack any physical comforts doesn’t mean you can’t have problems, Pilar.”

  She sighs into the phone. “I called to check on you, not to get the Spanish Inquisition.”

  I laugh. “Yeah. You’re only okay with giving me the third degree.”

  “Speaking of which, did you speak to Chema?”

  It’s my turn to sigh. “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “He’s pretty pissed at me.”

  “Were you expecting anything less?”

  “No. I guess not. Do me a favor? Check on him if you can?”

  “I’ll try, but you know Felipe—”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry. Forget I asked. I’ll try to keep tabs on him with my gym rats, as you have so lovingly put it.”

  “I miss you,” she says.

  “Miss you too.”

  She promises she’ll do her best to visit in a few weeks, but we both know better. Despite the lie, I’m glad for the call and the distraction from the boredom that is the dreaded hospital stay.

  I’m not surprised when Rory comes back. His white coat is gone, and I’m guessing he is off work late in the evening. The door to my room is open when he shows up, and he doesn’t ask to come in. He sits on a chair opposite me and leans back, his legs apart, while he bounces one foot on the floor, making his leg shake.

  The armrest props his elbow up as he grips a pen. He clicks the pen once, then twice, but doesn’t say anything.

  Being in the hospital gown without the armor of makeup or my knuckle-wraps, I shift in the bed uncomfortably. Say something, I think. Anything. What are you thinking, Rory?

  The pen clicks again as his dark green eyes pierce through me. I open my mouth to break the hollow silence, but nothing comes out. I’m not sure how to explain this, or that I even want to. Rory swallows, and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. His eyes narrow as he waits patiently.

  Another click of the pen.

  The sound of it is so annoying, I want nothing more than to march up to him, snatch the pen, and throw it to the ground.

  Click.

  Mercifully, he finally speaks. “You didn’t have a stomach bug,” he says, and it’s most definitely not a question. I shake my head. “What is it?” he asks.

  “I’m sure you read my chart already.”

  “No,” he snaps. “I wouldn’t invade your privacy like that.”

  “But, I thought . . . earlier, you looked at my chart.”

  “I did. I looked to make sure it was you. I confirmed your name, then I stopped reading.”

  “Oh,” is all I manage.

  Rory stops tapping his foot on the floor, and the sound ceases. He also sets the pen on the hospital tray between us. “So? Are you going to tell me what it is? I mean, you’re on the oncology floor, so I know it’s cancer.” His face betrays no emotion. I need to know if he’s angry or if maybe he even feels cat-fished, for all I know.

  “Does it matter?” I ask.

  Rory scoffs. “Yes, it fucking matters,” he sneers, finally betraying his stoic composure from earlier.

  “There’s a reason you were meant to be for only one night, Rory. This wasn’t supposed to get complicated.”

  “We’re a little past that, don’t you think?”

  “It’s not too late. Feelings aren’t involved yet. You can go on as you were before we met, and I’ll go on with my treatment. No hard feelings,” I offer, and do my best to smile in a way that might soothe him. Yet, the thought of him not being around aches in my chest.

  “Is that right?” he asks, but it’s clearly rhetori
cal. “You’ve decided, then? You have no feelings for me, and there’s no possible way I have feelings for you?” His muscles are all tight knots, and I wince a bit because he is so wound up, I can almost anticipate him throwing something. But kind and gentle Rory wouldn’t do something like that—I know that much.

  “Rory, we hardly know each other. I won’t begrudge you walking away if that’s what you are worried about. I never wanted you to find out at all.”

  “That’s what you think I’m worried about? That I would feel guilty about walking away now?”

  “Well, yeah. Wouldn’t you?”

  His eyes soften, and he scratches his jaw, letting out a long breath. “Valentina, I care about you. You’re right, we barely know each other, and it is too soon to talk about feelings. If circumstances were different, I would wait until we’d had more time together, but I meant what I said before. I want to get to know you and finding out you’re sick doesn’t change that.”

  “It does for me,” I say, and now it’s me who’s angry.

  “What does that mean?”

  “You were never supposed to know. You were a fantasy—what I would have wanted if I wasn’t sick—and I got to live it for one day. I was happy with that, but you had to keep pushing, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, I did! Because I like you,” he hisses. I blink because it’s almost comical how he says the sweetest words with the roughest voice and so much anger. I want to laugh at how such a deep voice comes from the body of a man who has no business with that baritone.

  “Rory,” I plead. “Do you think I want you around for this? Especially when you know what I am without this illness?”

  “Do you think you are any less remarkable because you’re sick? Valentina, it only makes you that much fiercer. Don’t you see? It’s the fighter in you that I’m drawn to.”

  My vision blurs at the welling of my eyes. He says the most perfect thing he could possibly say to me, and I press my hand to my chest to soothe my aching heart.

  Rory stands from his seat and lies down next to me on the hospital bed so he can embrace me. I curl up into his side like I did that night on the Kansas City grass and breathe him in. This time, it’s the hospital’s antiseptic scent instead of the earthy smells of the park that mingle with the smell of Rory, and it is no less remarkable because it is him. His embrace soothes like nothing in this world, and I fall apart in his arms. I break down for all the words I haven’t said and all the people who don’t know I’m sick. I sob into his t-shirt, and he lets me. He hugs me tight, encouraging me to let it all out.

  The circles he rubs on my back bring me down from my cry, and I compose myself.

  “Now, can you tell me what it is?”

  “Cervical cancer,” I say weakly.

  Rory’s chin rests on top of my head, and I’m so glad he can’t see my face right now.

  “Stage?”

  I try to resist giving him any details, but in the end, I give in. I tell him every detail about my cancer and am relieved I don’t have to explain what any of the terms mean because he already knows. His arms tighten around me like the words physically attack him.

  After a long moment, I feel him shake around me. I look up, and he is holding back laughter. I wipe my eyes. “What?” I ask. “Are you laughing?”

  “Nothing,” he says, but this time he lets a little laugh escape.

  “That’s not nothing. Tell me!”

  “I was just thinking . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s a good thing you’re dating an oncologist.” Then he lets the roar of laughter out. I love that he can’t help but laugh at his own jokes before he shares them out loud.

  I smack his abs playfully. “That’s not funny, Rory,” I say, but I’m also laughing.

  “Yeah, it is,” he says and plants a sweet little kiss on my forehead.

  “You really do laugh at anything,” I say with a roll of my eyes.

  “What else is there?”

  Chapter 11

  Four weeks of treatment down and only one to go, at least in this first round. Hopefully, it is also the only round if I achieve remission.

  “I want to admit you,” says Dr. Ramirez.

  “No, I’m fine,” I say. “I don’t need any extra help.”

  “It’s not about help. I don’t like the amount of weight you’ve lost. It’s getting harder and harder for you to keep anything down.”

  “How long will this hospital stay be?”

  “That depends. I want to run some tests.”

  I wince at the prospect of a long exploratory admission. Between the apartment, treatment, and the dehydration admission, I’m getting dangerously close to needing to ask Pilar for more money. She’d give it right away, but it would make her suspicious. Her life is hard enough in her marriage; I can’t add to her troubles.

  After extensive testing, Dr. Ramirez walks into my room with Dr. Medina, both their faces grim.

  I sit up and look between them expectantly. Dr. Ramirez stands a few feet behind Dr. Medina, and it is he who speaks first.

  “Hello, Miss Almonte,” Dr. Medina says.

  “Valentina, or Vale, please,” I say with a half-hearted smile as I wait for the bad news.

  “That’s right. I’m sorry. Valentina, I’m afraid the tests we ran today confirmed what Dr. Ramirez feared. The radiation is damaging your small intestine. That’s what’s been exacerbating your GI issues more than normal.”

  I suck in a breath and shut my eyes. No. This can’t be happening. My body is shutting down, and I’ve lost all control of it. The blow is devastating. I have always controlled my body one hundred percent. But this? There is nothing I can do to make this better. I don’t know how I manage to not cry—maybe because anger is vying for first place in my mind, but I keep it together in front of my two favorite doctors.

  “Okay,” I say as it sinks in. “So what do we do now?”

  Dr. Ramirez sits in front of me and squeezes my forearm. “We have to do surgery to repair your intestine,” she says.

  I exhale. “So there is something we can do about it, then?” Can I dare hope I will get through this? Hope is dangerous, but I want it so bad. “Is this common?” I ask.

  “It can be, for cervical cancer patients who receive extended radiation,” Dr. Medina says.

  “And the surgery?”

  “I have scheduled it for tomorrow,” Dr. Ramirez says.

  What follows is Dr. Ramirez explaining the surgical procedure briefly and answering some of my questions. However, both she and Dr. Medina reassure me the surgeon will stop by before the procedure to answer anything more specific. Both my doctors are confident this is the only path forward, and I have to get over the fear of major surgery because I have no other choice.

  “Can I go home today?” I ask.

  “I’d rather you stay,” she says.

  “But do I have to?”

  “I really think it’s best,” Dr. Medina interjects before Dr. Ramirez can respond.

  I’m bored out of my mind and wonder if I packed a book or at least a magazine. I stand to grab my duffle bag and plop it onto my mattress so I can rummage through it. Please tell me I at least packed my tablet, I’m thinking, but I must have said it out loud because someone clears their throat inside my room. I spin around and smile when I see that Dr. Ramirez is back. “Dr. Ramirez!” My excitement dwindles when my eyes land on Rory standing behind her.

  “Hello, Miss Almonte,” says Rory. I cock my head to study him. He’s never before called me that in our few interactions together at the hospital.

  We never discussed it, but now I’m wondering if I could get him into trouble at work. Surely there are rules against dating patients. But we met before either of us knew . . . I doubt his superiors would see it that way. I decide to play along for now, and I’ll be sure to ask him about it later.

  “Valentina. Please,” I correct and do my best to reassure him with my eyes that I won’t give him away.

  Most of wh
at Dr. Ramirez says doesn’t register. Something about consent forms that I’ve heard a million times, but I’m so nervous about giving him away, I’m afraid to speak.

  “Well, missy, if you are that bored of my rambling, maybe I’ll have the capable Dr. Dennis go over the paperwork with you. Do you mind, Dr. Dennis? I was paged.”

  “Sure,” he says and takes the consent form from Dr. Ramirez.

  The minute she leaves, I interrogate Rory. “Am I going to get you in trouble, Rory? Or fired?”

  He shrugs. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

  “Rory, please. I need to know.”

  “It’s frowned upon. Let’s put it that way. But I’ve never actually delivered any sort of care, nor have I broken any privacy laws trying to find out what’s going on with you—not that I haven’t been tempted. They will be able to tell I’ve never accessed your electronic record except for that first time before I knew it was you.”

  “What about the consent forms? Isn’t you going over them with me part of care?”

  “Yeah, I’ll page another resident in a bit so they can go over them with you. Better safe than sorry.”

  “All right. And Rory? Thanks for not reading my medical chart. I appreciate you respecting my privacy.”

  He takes a seat and scratches his jaw—a move I’ve come to recognize as a sign of either concern or deep thought. “So,” he starts. “You gonna tell me the truth this time, or will I have to pry it out of you again?”

  “You have the consent forms, so you know it’s surgery.”

  “No. I didn’t read them.”

  I can’t help but tell him everything Dr. Ramirez and Dr. Medina said to me about the procedure. Rory listens intently with a stoicism that I haven’t seen in him yet. It’s an entirely different side of him. I get the sense I’m looking at Dr. Dennis now, and not my Rory. There is no playfulness. His jaw ticks, almost as if he’s angry.

  After a long stretch of silence, I have to know what he is thinking. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “You.”

  “I’m wrong?”