“Out,” I hiss and point to my door.
He doesn’t budge, and I open the door. When he doesn’t step out, I press my hands to his chest and shove him out. I am weak, but he follows the direction of my push voluntarily until I slam the door on his face.
Even that small amount of activity has me nearly panting, and I’ve never felt so weak. I rest my back on the wall next to the door, and the coolness of it is inviting.
A sob I didn’t realize was building escapes me, and I can’t stop it. My legs are noodles, and I slowly slide down toward the floor, my back gliding down the wall.
I’m a crumpled mess on the carpet of my rental apartment. My entire family and support system is a country away, and I’ve kicked out the only human I care for who knows about my cancer.
I never looked into hiring a nurse because I thought I could do without one for a while. I hadn’t known then that I’d be having major surgery on top of everything else. Now was the time, though. I couldn’t keep feeling sorry for myself.
This is that moment in the fight when every fighter is so tired and beaten up, you consider giving up. But then you remember that the other guy is feeling the same and considering giving up too, so you push just a little more until you rise.
I set my jaw and tighten my fists. Cancer is the other guy here, and I have to rise because soon, the other guy will be giving up. I move to place my legs under me so I can stand up, but the movement shifts my abdominal muscles, and a searing pain radiates from the incision site, forcing my legs to stretch out again. All the air leaves my lungs, and I pant until the pain ceases. I guess the medication hasn’t kicked in.
The frustration deepens, and I fling my head to the wall. In my mind, I do this with force, but the effort is weak, so my head only gently taps at the wall.
Luckily, my phone is still in my pocket, saving me a trip crawling to it. I grab it, searching my contacts through my vision blurred by tears, and I call. It only rings once.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t do this alone. I need you. I need . . .” Saying the actual word is more challenging than I would have imagined. “I need help,” I say, ignoring the pride that wouldn’t let me say it until now. The weird thing is, saying the word out loud . . . is liberating.
The doorknob turns, and Rory is once again in my apartment. I smile weakly because I know he never left the other side of the door.
He crouches in front of me, and plants a kiss on my forehead. “Thank you,” he says.
“For what?”
“Letting me help. I know that was hard.”
“You do?”
“We’re so much alike, you don’t even know. I have a hard time asking for help too.”
Rory places his hands under my armpits and lifts me like a doll. I wince at the sudden movement, and when we are both on our feet, he bends to place one arm under my knees, lifting me off the ground. I cradle my face in his neck and let him carry me back to bed.
“You’ve lost too much weight,” he comments.
“Et tu, Brutus?”
Rory chuckles. “I’m guessing Dr. Ramirez already laid it on thick?”
I nod. “There wasn’t much to begin with. You have to remember, my body was a fat-burning machine.”
“In the morning, that’s the first thing we will work on.”
Once I’m settled, he inspects the room to make sure I have everything I need.
“Thank you, Rory. I’ll hire a nurse tomorrow.”
“You betcha, and no rush, really,” he says with a wide smile.
“I don’t want to keep taking your time like this.”
“Valentina, you can have all my time, any way you want it.”
I laugh. “Even in my sickbed?”
“Especially in your sickbed.”
My heart sinks a little when I hear him settling in and taking all his things to my guest room instead of mine. It’s for the best, though. I’m not sure what crazy thing my body will do next, and I probably don’t want him right next to me all the time. He is respecting my privacy and trying to preserve what little dignity I have left.
Chapter 13
I hardly remember the next two days after Rory quasi-moves in with me. The pain from surgery has only gotten progressively worse, and I can do nothing but lay in bed.
Sleeping lets me forget about the pain, so I spend most of my time doing just that. I have a fleeting memory of Rory trying to wake me up. He had small, cool cubes of watermelon in his hands as he tried to feed me. The coolness of one pressed against my lips nearly tempted me, but ultimately, I pushed it away in favor of sleep.
The next vague memory is a blurry collage of the hospital lobby, Rory carrying me in, and a flurry of hospital images and sensations; the pinch of the needle going in, tubes of blood drawn, and the IV line set up.
When I wake, I’m not surprised to be at the hospital, knowing I would only be lucky if it had all been a dream, and luck is not on my side these days. It’s morning, and my room is empty. How long have I been out? Is he back at work? I thought he took vacation time for a while to stay with me.
I lick my dry lips with a dry tongue and wince a little at the stiff skin peeling off my lower lip. They are so cracked it almost hurts. My throat is shut tight, and I’m thirstier than I ever have been. How long was I out?
The hospital remote rests conveniently by my side. I pick it up and press the call-nurse-button.
“Valentina, you’re awake! That’s great.” A sunny Sara walks into my room and reads from some of the monitors next to me. “Welcome back,” she says.
“How long have I been out?” I rasp.
“Oh, you must be thirsty. One sec.” She comes back with a cup filled with water and adds a straw before handing it to me.
“Dr. Dennis brought you in last night. You don’t remember anything? You were somewhat conscious when he checked you in.”
I shake my head, trying to bring back memories, but nothing swims back. “What happened?” I ask.
“You spiked a fever. They think an infection from your incision. The docs put you on antibiotics, and you should be good as new soon. I’ll have Dr. Ramirez come in and explain in more depth later today.”
“Thanks.”
“It was lucky Dr. Dennis was there.” Sara places her hands on her hips and looks at me suggestively. “So you and Dr. Dennis . . . ?”
I glance away from her, then return my eyes to meet hers. “I don’t want to get him in trouble,” I say.
Sara smiles. “He’s not your doctor, and he can’t be involved in your treatment moving forward. It’s not exactly against the rules, but—”
“But what?” I ask with wide eyes.
“It’s frowned upon,” she says.
I nod, understanding. “If it helps, I didn’t know Rory was a doctor here when I first met him—”
“Listen, you owe me no explanations. I won’t judge you,” she pauses then adds, “for anything.”
Sara says the word ‘anything’ pointedly like she has caught me with the hands in the dough, as Mom would say.
“Thanks . . .” I’m not sure I should ask her what she meant by that comment, so I trail off, hoping the silence will force her to fill the void.
“It’s none of my business,” she says finally, “but Rory left.”
“Oh,” I say.
“He was here all night.”
“He stayed overnight?” I ask, and my heart swells.
“He did, until . . .” Sara trails off, and it’s her who can’t meet my eyes now.
“Until what, Sara? What aren’t you telling me?”
“Until your husband showed up.”
“Until my what?” I nearly yell. I shake my head. What the hell?
“Like I said, it’s none of my business, but I do have to ask, Valentina, do you feel safe at home? Is that why you moved away from your family? Is your husband abusive?” Sara places a hand on my forearm and smiles warmly, inviting me to confess. Is this woman insane?
; “There’s a mistake, Sara, I don’t have a hus—” I don’t finish my sentence because a massive figure blocks the entire doorway to my room. I swallow hard.
Shit.
Chema stands with his arms crossed over his chest, looking at me with a face full of tension only reserved for when he is upset with me for slacking off during training.
Sara must confuse my look of panic with confirmation of her fears because she assumes a defensive stance between my bed and Chema. I twist in the bed so I can reach for her and gently pat her arm.
“No, it’s okay,” I say. “But he’s not my husband.”
Sara keeps pinning him down with a glare, and I’m in awe that Chema actually flinches. I’ve never seen him do that before.
“Did you lie to hospital staff to get patient information?” she asks defiantly.
“She is family,” he says with an accent even thicker than mine.
Sara throws her hands in the air and finally turns to face me again. “Do I need to call security? Do you want him out of here?”
I shake my head but have a hard time finding my voice. “He’s, um, he—is right. He’s family. He can be here.”
Sara’s brows knit together, but she lets it go when I smile at her. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Call if you need anything,” she says before leaving my room and sending one last nasty glare Chema’s way.
Chema walks forward, his nostrils flaring, and I can’t help but recoil as I wrap my middle with the blankets. I wouldn’t want to be his opponent in a fight.
I close my eyes for a second, then take a deep breath. He is going to yell. He looks so mad, so betrayed. I roll every lie I ever told him on a loop in my brain and know he has every right to be angry with me.
I’ve betrayed him.
But he doesn’t yell.
Instead, he drags a chair to the spot next to my bed, and it’s only when he sits that his shoulders collapse, and he buries his head in his hands. His shoulders start shaking, and I would think it’s laughter, but the sob that escapes from deep in his chest leaves no room for interpretation.
“Hey, Chema, love, no,” I say, switching to Spanish for him and place a hand on his shoulder. “I’m here. I’m okay.”
His head snaps up, and his jaw sets with a fury I know all too well. “You are not okay,” he hisses.
The tears streaming down his face deflate me. “You’re right. But I’m working on it, okay? I am still here.”
“What if you died and nobody knew, Valentina? What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I didn’t, Chema, I’m right here,” I say a bit louder, hoping the words get through to him.
He sits back, and it is only then, with his hands folded over his lap and the light flooding through the window illuminating his face, that I see his puffy, bloodshot eyes and red nose, like he has been crying for hours.
Or days.
“Chema, I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to worry; that’s why I didn’t say anything.”
“Worry? Valentina, you are going to send me to an early grave. I almost had a heart attack when I saw you.”
“Lucky you were in a hospital, then,” I say and grin. Chema glares at me with icy eyes, and I realize Rory’s dark humor is starting to rub off on me, and it is not for everyone. Rory. Where is Rory?
“Chema?”
“Yeah?”
“Where’s Rory?”
“You mean the flacucho who was here before I arrived?”
I nod.
“He left.”
My eyes widen with horror. No. “Please don’t tell me he thinks you really are my husband?”
Chema studies me until the smallest corner of his mouth extends into a hint of a smile. “Seriously, Valentina? A gringo? And a lanky one at that? I have more muscles in one nalga than he has in his entire body.
“Not true,” I say. “He is deceivingly fit,” I proclaim, and just like that, I’m in Chema’s mind-game.
He grins. “You’ve seen these muscles?” he asks and raises an eyebrow.
I huff. “No. He’s a runner. That’s why I say that.”
When my first text goes unanswered, and he sends me to voice mail on the first ring, I decide I have to go find Rory. I start shuffling blankets off me and trying to get to my feet when Chema pushes me back into bed with one finger to my shoulder.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks.
“I have to find him, Chema. He thinks I’m married. I have to explain.”
“Don’t worry. He’ll be back.”
“How are you so sure?”
“He told me.”
“What?”
“Yeah, he said he was getting a few things from your apartment, and he’d be back to drop off the key.”
I sink back into the bed as my heart plummets low in my chest. “You shouldn’t have told him—”
“Let’s not start begrudging who should have told who what,” Chema hisses.
Great, the two most important men in my life are mad at me at the same time. That thought jars me. When did I start thinking of Rory as equally as important to me as Chema? Chema, who is family at this point.
Rory is coming back, so I try to calm down in the meantime and shift the conversation away from him.
“How did you find out?” I ask, finally.
“Pilar called me.”
“Pilar? How does she know?” A fresh wave of panic hits me. Do my parents know too?
“What did you think was going to happen, Valentina? Huh? You leave your family and your dreams for a half-baked plan to train away from home. Of course, she was going to get suspicious. If you signed on with an agent, why would you need the kind of money she gave you?”
The extensive web of lies I cast is starting to ensnare me. “Chema,” I croak, unable to voice the question I am dreading. “Do my parents know?”
He nods. “They are on a flight as we speak.”
I shut my eyes. No. The last people on earth I want to be seeing right now are my parents. “You had to tell them?”
“They had to know. But it wasn’t up to me. Pilar made that call.”
“Is she coming too?”
“No. Felipe, he . . .”
“Yeah, I know. Don’t worry.” The day she leaves that slime ball will be the happiest day of my life.
“I can’t believe she told Mom and Dad,” I say.
“Really? That’s what you’re worried about? God, Valentina, you can be so selfish sometimes.” Chema shakes his head and stands to pace the small space in front of my bed. “We thought you were dying. Which, I guess you kind of are . . .” He trails off, and his bottom lip quivers.
“Chema, I didn’t mean to . . .”
“I know.” He sniffs. “You’ve always been too proud to ask for help, but I never thought you would take it to these extremes—”
“It’s not about pride,” I say in a small voice.
“Then what?”
“So many things. It’s hard to explain.”
“Try.”
I want to tell him the truth. I never wanted this disease to define me. I didn’t want to walk into a room and be the cancer girl. The sick girl. The dying girl. I’ve always been the strong one. The fighting one. The athlete. This is not who I am. I don’t want to tell Chema I was afraid he would stop coaching me after—if there will even be an after. Or that I feared potential sponsors losing interest in my career. I didn’t want them to see the failure of my body, because I wasn’t a failure. But most of all, I want to tell him how angry I am. I don’t say any of it. “I didn’t want my parents to know. That’s all.” I say.
“Why not?” Chema wants answers, and he will not relent until I give them to him.
“Because I’m so angry at them, okay? I can’t stand to look at them.” That’s not a lie, and I’m hoping a partial truth will appease him.
His eyes soften, and he retakes his seat next to me, cupping my hand not trapped by the IV line in his. “Did something happen before you were diagnosed?�
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“You know it’s always been strained between us. Dad had a lot of resentments toward me even before this happened. And I won’t lie. I have a lot of resentment for him too. But Chema, that’s not even it. There’s a vaccine for this type of cancer. They refused it because they said it was for sucias only.”
“And if you’d had it, you wouldn’t have gotten cancer?”
“No. I wouldn’t have.”
“Then you have every right to be angry at them. Hell, I’m angry, but tell them that, Valentina. Don’t shut the rest of your family out because you’re mad at your parents.”
Chema is right, of course. I’m bottling up so much anger for my parents, anger I’ve accumulated for so many years, anger that stretches far beyond their inability to give me a simple vaccine.
At first, the anger started when I was old enough to understand Dad’s general disinterest in his own family. His business took up most of his time. His lovers took the rest, leaving nothing left for his wife and daughters.
For her part, Mom retreated into herself with the help of various little pills that a new doctor friend of hers prescribed. She slept or was awake but high—those were her two operational modes growing up. She became a hollowed-out, inactive participant in her own life, and I couldn’t stand to watch her weakness. I was only fourteen when the dynamics of my family finally fit together in the jigsaw puzzle.
I swore I’d never be that weak and decided instead to be strong. I chose mixed martial arts in my quest to find my own strength, and I thought I had found it until my body told me otherwise.
“Chema, I know what happens next with my parents.”
“What’s that?”
“I will be an inconvenience for my father who has to be away from his commitments, and my mother will play the part of the perfect martyr whose daughter is sick. It’s nauseating.”
“Why don’t you give them the benefit of the doubt?” He asks.
“Because I know better.”
Slowly but surely, I get the full story out of Chema. Pilar became increasingly suspicious and decided to engage the services of a private investigation company. They found me out, easily tracked my mobile device, and took pictures.
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