Contusion

  Contusion

  Ofelia Martinez

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Ofelia Martinez

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021911212

  First Edition

  ISBN 978-1-954906-03-7 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-954906-08-2 (eBook)

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Six Months Later

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Thirteen Years Later

  Epilogue

  Also by Ofelia Martinez

  Hiding in the Smoke

  Hiding in the Smoke

  Hiding in the Smoke

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To Rob, for always going out of your way to make me laugh.

  Thank you for setting the bar so high for all my fictional leading men.

  Author’s Note

  This is a love story between Valentina and Rory. This is not a story about cancer. Specific treatment and symptom details have been omitted because I want the reader to focus on the love story.

  Every cancer patient’s journey is different. I am not an expert, and Valentina’s specific case and the clinical trial depicted in this novel are entirely fictional.

  In the United States, the National Breast and Cervical Cancer Early Detection Program assists uninsured women with free cancer screening services. You can learn more about eligibility at www.cdc.gov/cancer/nbccedp/.

  Chapter 1

  It’s either the machine or me. You are going down, I telepathically warn the vending contraption holding my Pop-Tart hostage. I’ve never had a Pop-Tart in my life, but I haven’t eaten all day, and hangry Valentina Almonte . . . well, let’s just say even inanimate objects wouldn’t want to meet her. “I train with two-hundred-and-fifty-pound men, so you better give it soon,” I mutter under my breath as I think about my coach, Chema. Chema, who didn’t know where I was and was probably worried. Two-hundred-and-fifty-pound Chema, who I have only been able to wrestle to the ground once. I should call him today, but not until I eat. Chema isn’t fond of hangry Valentina either. I shake the vending machine as discreetly as possible.

  I’m getting ready to start kicking the thing when someone clears their throat nearby to grab my attention. I turn and am faced with a red-headed, freckled man who has about four inches on my five-foot-five frame. I stare with surprise at the handsome stranger with piercing green eyes. His nose and cheekbones are chiseled like a Roman marble statue. I’ve never seen a red-headed person this close before, and I’ve always been a sucker for bearded smart guys. He wears glasses, so he has to be smart. That’s the rule, right? Yet there is something manly about him, starting with his short beard and solidifying with a surprisingly deep voice considering his slender frame.

  “Here,” he says, extending two dollar bills my way.

  “Um, it’s okay,” I say, self-conscious about the last remnants of my Spanish accent that I was never quite able to shake off.

  “Please,” he insists. “I’m afraid for its life.” He points to the vending machine and smirks as he extends the bills my way again.

  I cock my head to the side, unsure I should accept—my brain misfiring at what to say to this handsome stranger—when he sweeps past me to insert the bills into the machine. His arm brushes mine, and I jump back like I am dodging a strike from my opponent.

  “What was it?” he asks and smiles broadly.

  I point to the lopsided pastry package dangling from a corner caught on the claw of the feeding coil. “The Pop-Tart,” I say. This is so embarrassing. I finally meet someone in the U.S., someone handsome, and he is buying out my hostage snack.

  When the snack drops, he bends down to grab my prize, and I don’t check out his ass. Not one little bit. But if I had, which I didn’t, I’d have to admit it is quite a fine ass in that light-colored denim.

  “Are you waiting for family?” he asks, handing me the Pop-Tart.

  I look around nervously at the nearly empty waiting area. I’m not ready to tell anyone, even a stranger, so I shrug and change the subject instead. “Thanks, um—what’s your name?”

  “You betcha. I’m Rory,” he says, and his smile extends to his eyes. He offers his hand, and I take it in mine.

  “Valentina. Nice to meet you.”

  He adjusts the backpack strap over his shoulder, and I wonder if he is a college student because he has to be in his early twenties. “Valentina,” he tries out the name in his mouth. “That’s pretty. I don’t think I know any Valentinas.”

  Except for the salsa, I think. “It’s Mexican,” I say abruptly.

  “Is that where you’re from? Mexico?”

  I nod. “Well, thanks again for the snack. I appreciate it.”

  I’m walking toward my spot in the waiting room when he calls out after me. “Anytime. And take it easy on the equipment, tiger.”

  Sitting in my chair, I track the fiery-haired Rory as he leaves the waiting area. I slump back in my seat and open the silvery package—my stomach groans at the sound, and my mouth waters. I had seen Pop-Tarts on American television many times, but by the time I was old enough to travel north, I was already in training.

  My rigorous training included a strict food plan that was gluten-free, sugar-free, dairy-free, and all the other trendy ‘-frees’ that coach Chema could throw my way. I had fought it at the time, but he’d refused to train me if I wouldn’t agree to follow his rules to a T.

  Chema is a coveted mixed martial arts coach, and I wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to train with him, so I promised I would stay on the food plan if he would train me. He has coached me since I was sixteen, and after eight years of training, he’s more like an older brother than a coach.

  If he could see me now, about to eat a gluten-full, sugar-full, dairy-full atomic snack, I’d be doing push-ups for days in punishment. I smile and take a healthy bite. My face contorts, and my nose scrunches up. Maybe I should have taken baby steps with the sugar after eight years without.

  Yes. Eight years with no sugar. It wasn’t a sacrifice. Well, it had been at first, but it was one I was more than willing to make if it meant I could one day get to the UFC.

  I only manage to eat half of one Pop-Tart before I have to throw it out, completely empalagada, and I wonder what the English word is for that sickening over-sugared nauseous sensation. The search engine on my phone has no answers, and I let it go.

  “Valentina Almonte,” a young woman calls out, and I follow her through two sets of doors until we settle in a small office.

  “Please take a seat,” she says with a warm smile.

  This woman has to be close to my age, and I find
myself relaxing a little at the familiarity.

  “I’m Amanda. You can call me Mandy. We spoke on the phone.”

  “Yes. I remember. You did the eligibility questionnaire when I first signed up for the clinical trial.”

  “Exactly. I’m Dr. Ramirez’s research assistant.” She smiles again and splits her attention between my face and her computer screen as she reads my medical chart.

  “I have to confirm information you have already given.”

  “Okay,” I say. I squeeze my hands into fists and relax them, repeating the motion several times. I follow my calming technique with deep breaths as I prepare for what’s next.

  “Please state your full name.”

  “Valentina Almonte.”

  “Age?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “City of Residence.”

  “Well, it was Mexico City, but it will be Kansas City for the duration of the treatment as well as six months of follow-up care.”

  “Any changes in symptoms?”

  “No symptoms other than the slight back pain I already reported.”

  “Has the frequency or intensity of the back pain changed in any way?”

  “No. It’s the same.”

  “I know when we spoke on the phone, you hadn’t received any treatment, but have you received any treatment since?”

  “No cancer treatment. No. I only take over-the-counter pain medication sometimes for my back, but not every day.”

  “Thank you,” Mandy says. “I know it’s weird because you gave all the information already, but I want to prepare you. Many doctors, nurses, and even hospital staff will have you confirm a lot of the same information over and over. Please be patient with us. It’s hospital policy.”

  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 reliabl
e 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.