Remission by Ofelia Martinez
Chapter 1
Satan in the Audience
The interview was going well, and I hadn’t barfed or passed out once. As we neared its conclusion, the muscles in my legs relaxed, and I uncrossed my legs, taking a taller posture in my chair. The question-and-answer bit, my favorite part, was next. Reaching young girls and women wanting to become doctors was reason enough to put myself through the stress of getting on stage to lecture at universities.
“Dr. Carolina Ramirez, everyone. Can we all please give her a round of applause?”
The packed auditorium erupted, and my cheeks would have been tomato-red had I not prepared with extra layers of makeup. I was thirty-five years old, for crying out loud. I should’ve been over stage fright by this point in my career.
“Please, that’s enough. Thank you,” I said, waving down the audience.
“We would like to thank you so much for being with us today,” said the interviewer. “Before we turn it over to the audience, I would like the students here today to know that when you signed on for this guest lecture and interview, you did so only on the condition that there would be extensive time for a Q&A.”
“That’s right. It’s a standard request on all of my speaking contracts.”
“Why is that important to you?” The young journalism student interviewing me smiled as she asked. She let the note cards rest on her lap, a sure sign the interview would soon be over. During the course of the interview, she had collected a constellation of sweat droplets on her upper lip and continuously wiped her hands on her black slacks. I had done hundreds of these interviews, and on this occasion, the interviewer seemed more nervous than me. I smiled reassuringly at her as if to say, We may both be nervous, but we are in this together.
“If I’m honest, if I could, I would skip the lecture and interview, and instead take each of you for coffee to talk one-on-one. Sadly, unless I clone myself, time does not allow that luxury.”
“If anyone could manage that, surely it would be you,” the interviewer said.
I laughed. “No. For now, I’m still going to focus on my oncology research and my patients. I will always follow my passion. Let’s leave the cloning to someone else.”
“We have a few people with microphones in the audience. Please raise your hand if you have a question for Dr. Ramirez.”
I placed my hand in front of my forehead to block the blinding spotlight, so I could see the person asking the first question.
The young woman couldn’t look up at me as she clutched my book in her shaky hands.
“Dr. Ramirez, I loved your book—” Her voice cracked a bit.
“Thank you. What is your name?”
“Araceli.”
“Hi, Araceli,” I said with an encouraging smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too, Dr. Ramirez,” she said, giggling. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and fidgeted with the book. “Your book is mainly about research. Honestly, a lot of it went over my head, but I couldn’t stop reading. You made it seem . . . accessible . . . but you also talked about how you struggled to advance your career in this field. Why was it important to include that in a book that would have otherwise been a dry and boring publication about research?”
“Thank you, Araceli,” I started. “That is a huge compliment to me. I worked really hard to make my book readable to anyone, even those not already in the medical community, hoping it might spark an interest in medicine. We need more soldiers in the trenches. But to answer your question, I was writing to my younger self, which means I was writing to any young woman intrigued by medicine but too intimidated to pursue it. The many female doctors who came before me made it so much easier, but it still is really, really hard to become a doctor. It’s harder if, like me, you are a woman. Even harder if you are a minority. Even harder if you grew up with little money or opportunity. The list goes on and on. I want women in my same circumstances to know that it is possible. It won’t be easy, but I swear to you that you will find mentors to help guide you in your career as a doctor.”
“Thank you, Dr. Ramirez.”
“Oh, before we go to the next question, Araceli, I see you have my book with you. If you’d like me to sign it, please stay after the Q&A. I’d love to chat with you some more.”
Araceli smiled as though she had won the lottery, and I wondered if one day the letters M.D. would follow her name.
The next girl’s name was Stephanie. She was much more self-assured, though she asked a more basic question.
“Why did you get into medicine?” she asked.
I hid my judgment because I would never embarrass someone publicly like that, but I always dreaded that question, and to my annoyance, it was the one most frequently asked. It was a simple question, but I didn’t like sharing that truth, so I always gave a partial answer, which was not the same as lying. Not really. “Anyone who gets into medicine wants to save lives. If that is something you are interested in, then medicine is for you.” I smiled, dismissing her more quickly than I had Araceli.
The microphone went to the next person, who was, unfortunately, sitting directly below the position of the spotlight, leaving me completely blind and unable to make out a face. I adjusted in my chair and craned my neck, trying to see the person, but it was no use.
“Hello,” the voice said. This time it was a man.
“Hello.” I smiled. “What is your question?”
“Your first grant,” he said, and my blood went cold.
That voice. I knew that voice as well as I knew human anatomy.
“You got your first significant grant at a very young age. Most doctors are fellows or attendings before receiving that kind of research funding, but you were only a resident,” he said.
My heart launched itself against my ribs, and, I swear, my poor lungs were caught in the crossfire because I couldn’t breathe. The words were getting in, but I wasn’t computing—not yet. I squinted, trying to make out the face that I knew in my bones belonged to the voice, but the lights were too bright. I had to give up.
I steeled my spine. Fake it till you make it, I reprimanded myself. Feel confident. Be confident. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not hearing a question in there.”
“Please forgive me,” he said. His accent had gotten softer over the years, but that voice was undeniably his. “My question is—where did you get the inspiration for your first research grant?”
The bastard. He was goading me. Here. In front of all these people. Fine. I could play his game. I could give as good as I took.
“A researcher was working in the sub-specialty of cancer research I was interested in at the time. I read all of his research, and I found a way I could improve upon his work.”
“Isn’t that plagiarism of someone else’s research?” he asked.
“That is actually a misconception,” I fired back. “All medical advances are built on the foundations laid by research before them. A mentor once told me that research was a dance. One doctor takes a step forward, and the next doctor picks up the lead, spinning the research into a twirl, pushing it further.” I grinned and challenged him with a raised eyebrow before realizing he was probably too far away to make out my facial expressions.
“Sounds like a wise mentor,” he said.
“He had his moments,” I said, and just like that, our banter was back. “Medical research doesn’t necessarily mean living in a laboratory like a mad scientist inventing new medicine, though it could certainly involve that. A lot of research, mine included, is about adjusting existing medications and protocols into new modalities. There are drugs that are used now for one thing but were originally intended for something else. I haven’t invented any of the medications or radiology methods in my research. Other scientists did that long before me. But what I have done is change dosing and experiment with different combinations of medications. A lot of my research also involves psychological components—how much can a patient take mentally before it becomes too much?” I sat back, pleased with my answer. He wouldn’t publicly ruffle my feathers—he had already taken enough.
I hadn’t heard that voice in over seven years, not since he left town after nearly destroying my career. Despite my hatred of him, the familiar back and forth we had always shared returned, and I resented the excitement that simple fact brought into my body.
“Thank you, Dr. Ramirez. If I may, a second question, or rather a request—”
“Sure.”
“I also have a copy of your book here with me. Would it be okay if I also stayed behind to get a signature?”
“Of course.”
The last thing I wanted to do was speak with him, let alone sign his book. And what business did he have buying my book anyway? I took a deep breath; this was the worst possible time for my hatred of Hector Medina to rear its head.
I answered about twenty more questions. The entire time, I couldn’t see him but knew his glare was glued to my skin. I managed, somehow, miraculously, to concentrate on the questions, but I know I wasn’t one-hundred-percent on my A-game. Luckily, my B-game was also rather spectacular. When the interview wrapped up, I took a break backstage to gulp an entire water bottle in hopes of cooling off and calming down.
After the auditorium emptied, I came back on stage to meet with Araceli, as promised. The spotlight was turned off, and I was aware of the second figure in the room only by my peripheral vision, but I refused to look at him.
I sat on the stage, my legs dangling off the edge as I took Araceli’s book. I chatted her up for about ten minutes to get to know her a little better so my dedication could be personalized. She left with a dazed look, as though she might swoon, and I grinned like a fool after her.
I didn’t see him move so much as I sensed him approaching, drawn to him like the pull of a magnet that had always been there between us, binding us together. That hadn’t changed, and alarms started blaring in my brain.
“That was very kind of you, Dr. Ramirez,” he said.
Crossing my arms, I finally turned to him as he walked over to me, his steps a loud echo in the empty auditorium. I liked this position of power, sitting on top of the stage like a queen waiting for her peasants to come up to her from below. I smiled and clung to that image to give me the strength I would need to deal with the person I hated the most in this universe.
“Dr. Medina,” I said. “How . . . nice to see you.”
“Please call me Hector, Carolina,” he said, his voice trying to soothe me like a child. The nerve.
“That’s ‘Dr. Ramirez’ to you, Dr. Medina. Let’s keep this professional.”
He finally stood in front of me, and I reveled in this view from the higher vantage point. He looked up to meet my face from several feet below. Letting out a breath, he handed me the book. I arched an eyebrow.
“I wasn’t kidding,” he said. “I would very much like a dedication.”
“You are kidding.” I scoffed.
“No, Carolina. I’m serious. I’m very proud of you.”
Proud? That gave me pause. Why would the man who nearly ruined my career be proud of me?
Disbelieving, I snatched the book from his hand. I opened the cover to the third page, which had the most blank space for a dedication. I smiled devilishly. I couldn’t resist:
To the Devil himself—
You couldn’t pull me down to hell with you.
Hate always,
Dr. Ramirez
Jumping off the edge of the stage, I landed squarely in front of him and handed him the book. Standing on his level, I hated the height difference. I was tall, but he still had a good three inches on me. He encroached on my space too much with his height. I damned him for looking more handsome than ever. In the seven years since I’d seen him, his impossibly good looks had actually improved. His dark-brown, tanned skin glowed even more. What had once been salt and pepper hair was now nearly white at the temples, and his face was a bit rounder. He’d gained weight. The good kind. He was broader at the shoulders than he’d been back then, and I hated myself for noticing he’d clearly been working out. The man was like freaking wine.
He opened the book to read the inscription and laughed.
“That’s funny, huh?” I said.
What in the world was happening? I didn’t understand any of this. Why was he here? Why was he happy, smiling of all things, and proud of me? Nothing made sense, but I would be damned before I’d ask him.
“I will treasure this forever,” he said, clutching the book to his chest. “I see you remain judgmental and critical of me.”
“I see you remain tactless and careless,” I shot back.
He laughed, and I noticed the sparkle in his eye. A sparkle I knew well, but it was so much brighter now.
I slung my purse over my shoulder, ready to get going and forget this crazy day ever happened, but Hector grabbed my wrist as I turned to leave.
“No, Carolina, wait.” I looked at his hand on my wrist at the same time he did, and we both froze. We only connected for two, maybe three seconds, before he withdrew his hand, but those seconds electrified us. Nine years since the first time I’d touched him. Seven since the last time I’d spoken with him. I couldn’t believe my body still reacted to him the same way after all this time.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay,” I said, palming my wrist with my other hand to calm the fire on my skin.
“Can I please take you out for a drink, or coffee perhaps?”
I was speechless, so I could only shake my head.
“Please, Carolina. I have so much I have to say to you.”
He said my name in nearly every sentence like he was pleading. I took too long to answer, and he pulled off his glasses to clean them. I knew that tell well. He was thinking. He wanted to find an argument that would persuade me to have drinks with him.
“Even if I wanted to,” I said, “which I don’t, I can’t. I have a flight to catch.”
“How about in Kansas City?” he asked, hopeful.
My entire body stilled. “In Kansas City?”
“Yes. Tomorrow. That little café on Westport Road you liked so much. Wait, is that still open?”
“It-it is, but you’re going to be in Kansas City?”
“Yes. Does five sound okay to you? Tomorrow?” He smiled, and in that moment, he looked like a little kid.
“Why?” I asked, closing my eyes, seeking patience from within. “Why are you going to be in Kansas City? Please don’t tell me you’re coming back.”
“Is the idea so terrible?”
“I-I, um, I have to go.”
“Okay, but please. Meet me tomorrow. Five p.m.”
I finally nodded. I would at least have to find out why my nightmare was back in my hometown. Then I ran out of the building as fast as I could because there was no air left in the vast auditorium.
Nine Years Ago