Remission by Ofelia Martinez
Epilogue
Hector stood in front of the fireplace mantel with all the family pictures, our five-year-old daughter in his arms. Marisela’s long legs dangled nearly to his knees, and already we could tell she would grow up to be tall—just like her parents.
She wore a deep blue dress with grey wool leggings and looked positively adorable in her daddy’s arms. Though physically she looked most like me, her attitude, brain, and mannerisms were all Hector Medina.
When our daughter was born, Hector had wanted to name her after my mom, but Marisela came into this world with my face—my mother’s face. I couldn’t handle looking at her and calling her by my mother’s name day after day. Instead, I suggested we name her after his mom. Hector had grinned as he let out a tear. Marisela, who had been in her dad’s arms swaddled in the tiniest bundle I had ever seen, caught the tear with her forehead.
Grammy Marisela, as we all now called her to differentiate between grandmother and granddaughter, wasn’t joining us this holiday season. In her seventies, she didn’t like leaving her home in Mexico to travel any longer, but we had promised to visit in the spring.
“Daddy, this is my brother,” Marisela said, pointing to the picture of Jake my dad had added to the mantel.
“Yes,” Hector said. “That’s your older brother Jake.”
“He’s in heaven,” she told him matter-of-factly, and the words sounded like my father’s counsel.
“Is he now?” Hector asked like she had all the answers.
“Yeah!” Marisela said with a confidence not unlike her father’s. “Grammy Consuelo takes care of him there.” And that explanation definitely had Dad written all over it. Hector chuckled, and Marisela didn’t notice her dad’s eyes misting over, but I caught sight of it when he turned his face slightly away from her to take a deep breath.
Dad placed a hand on my shoulder. I was standing, leaning against the door frame that led to the living room, watching my family. “You know, Mami would be so in love with her granddaughter,” I said as I clasped Dad’s hand on my shoulder.
“She is in love with her,” said Dad. I wasn’t sure I believed that, but it was still comforting that he believed it, and he believed it enough for the both of us. “You have a package,” he said. “It’s on the table.”
I went into the kitchen where Sofia and her daughter Audrey were smearing masa onto dry corn husks and helping Dad roll tamales. I grabbed the small box from the table so it wouldn’t be in the way of their work.
I watched Audrey work diligently, her tongue poking out to the side as she concentrated on getting the perfect tamal, and I laughed. She was twelve now and growing into a beautiful young woman. Her dad and Sofia were going to have a heck of a time with boys real soon.
“Tía,”Audrey said, looking up at me. “Is Tía Sara coming to dinner with the boys?”
“Yeah, why aren’t they already here helping?” Sofia asked with mock-disdain.
“No, Mom!” Audrey said. “My tía Sara doesn’t come until the food is ready.”
Audrey made the accusation so seriously, Dad, Sofia, and I all roared with laughter. Hector and Marisela joined us in the kitchen, asking us what was so funny. Hector joined in with laughter when I repeated Audrey’s matter-of-fact statement.
“Yes, sweetie,” I told her. “Sara is coming, but it’s better if she comes when dinner is ready, or do you want her tornado boys here while we try to work?”
“No!” she said with horror, and we all laughed again. Audrey returned her attention to the tamal she was rolling. She feigned disinterest when she spoke again, but I didn’t miss her cute little rosy cheeks reddening crimson. “What about Tía Mandy? Is she bringing Lulu?”
Why was my niece asking about Mandy’s son Lucas? I knew they were almost the same age and went to the same school, but the redness in her face amused me. I tried not to show it as I answered her. “No, sweetie. Lulu is in Spain with his other grandparents for the holidays. He’ll be back after the new year.”
Audrey shrugged, and I changed the subject to prevent her any embarrassment if anyone else caught on. I still had her back. I just hoped there wasn’t payback from Sofia when Marisela became a pre-teen and started thinking about boys.
Hector lowered Marisela to the ground, and she ran to her grandpa who had a ball of masa waiting for her to play with. She rolled the dough in her hands and sank her fingers into it, giggling at the sensation. She ran to the living room with it still in her hands.
“What’s the package?” Hector asked.
I had forgotten about it and looked down at the small box still resting on my lap. “I don’t know. Hand me the kitchen scissors?”
“Is your dad coming to dinner, Audrey?” Hector asked as he handed me the scissors.
Audrey’s little face fell, and she bit her lip just like her momma.
“No,” Sofia said when Audrey didn’t answer. “He’s in Germany working, but he’ll be back by Christmas, right, honey?” Sofia ran her fingers over Audrey’s bangs, pushing them away from her eyes.
“Right,” said Audrey, more cheerful now.
Opening the package, I found an assortment of Mexican candy, and I smiled. I knew exactly who these were from. The box was filled with tamarind-covered candy, my favorite watermelon lollipops, banana bubble gum, and several cajeta and dulce de leche candies. I opened the card, recognizing the familiar handwriting that found me every holiday season.
For the doctor who gave me a fighting chance,
Thank you for saving my life.
Much Love,
Valentina Dennis
“It’s from a patient,” I said. Hector hovered over me, looking inside the box. His hand reached toward my lap for a piece of candy, but I smacked it away. “That’s my candy, Dr. Medina,” I said.
“Is that right, Dr. Ramirez?” Hector put his hands on his hips in warning just like he did when he was attempting—and failing—to be stern with our daughter.
I sprang to my feet, opened the door to the backyard, and ran as I clutched the box in my hands. I only barely heard Hector’s footfalls on the grass as he followed me, but I knew he wasn’t far behind.
He caught me and gripped my waist with one hand as he tickled me with the other.
“No, daddy!” shouted Marisela, now next to us. “She is going to drop the candy!”
I wiggled in his grip. “Stop! Stop!” I pleaded through the laughter.
Hector stopped long enough for me to hand my daughter the box. Marisela’s eyes widened at the sight of all the candy, and she ran with it back inside the house to show her grandpa.
“Dr. Ramirez,” Hector said. “Half of what is yours is mine.”
“Everything except for candy.” I grinned at him, and he tackled me to the ground.
Dad hadn’t raked the yard yet, and I laid on a bed of yellow and orange leaves. Hector’s weight pinned me to the ground, and he dipped his head to kiss me gently—just one chaste little peck would do for now, until we got home and put Marisela to bed.
As he looked at me with that smile of his, I thought of everything we had created together and how beautiful it all was. Nothing we had ever done together was ever short of remarkable.
I had come from a tiny family, just Dad and me, but I’d slowly but surely grown it. First, with Ramiro, then Sara, then all my girlfriends, and finally, all my nieces and nephews. We had filled this house with a huge family and a lot of laughter.
I lay there, looking up at my husband, feeling the crisp autumn air nip at my skin, incredibly grateful for the family we had made.
FIN
Bonus Chapter
Would you like to read a free bonus chapter from Remission? To get Hector’s point of view when he first meets Carolina, join my reader club here.
In the meantime, are you ready to start on Valentina’s story? Keep reading for an excerpt from the second book in the Heartland Metro Hospital series, Contusion.
Contusion Excerpt
Chapter One
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 reliable 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.
It’s a beautiful city, and I wish I had come here under different circumstances. Now all I will have as souvenirs will be the bitter memories of cancer treatment.
I take a long pull from the bottle of wine, not caring when some of it spills from the corners of my mouth and down my chin, splattering over the white duvet. I’ll get a new one tomorrow. I press my forehead to the glass and hug the bottle to my body while I look at the lights of the city night.
My phone is on silent mode, so I don’t hear it when it rings, but the bright glow in the dark apartment signals the incoming call. I block the light with one hand as I grab the phone with the other. Pili is displayed on the screen—my nickname for my older sister Pilar. I’ve called her Pili since I was four-years-old, and she’s hated it ever since.
“Tini?” I hear on the other end when I pick up. I hate her nickname for me as much as she hates mine for her. We would both benefit from a truce, but we are both too stubborn.
I roll my eyes. “Hi, Pili. How are you?”
“You promised you would call me when you landed yesterday, and I never heard from you,” Pilar whines.
“I’m sorry. Been busy with training and all. I was actually about to call you—”
“Sure you were,” she huffs. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“How’s it going? Are you settled in? How’s the new coach? Give me an update!”
I suppose as my benefactor, she deserves information. “I just got here, but yes, everything’s fine,” I lie. “I got my apartment keys yesterday, furniture comes tomorrow, and I’ve been training all day.”
“Furniture tomorrow?” She yells, appalled, and I pull the phone away from my ear for a second after her shriek. “You should have stayed in a hotel until then. Do you need more money?” she asks.
“No. You’ve given me more than enough. Don’t worry.” A million dollars should cover treatment and living expenses in the U.S., shouldn’t it? I couldn’t ask her for more. I just couldn’t, not even knowing she could spare five times that amount without batting an eye.
“You sound tired.”
“Yeah, training right after a long day of flying can really take it out of you, you know?” I never lied to my sister before my diagnosis, and I am surprised at how easily it all rolls off my tongue.
“And when are you going to tell Chema?”
I wince. “Soon. I need to find the right time to—”
“The right time was when you were here. In person. I hate to tell you this, Tini, but you are a little shit for not being upfront with him. He deserves to know you got an agent and a new coach. You basically just ghosted him.”
She isn’t saying anything that isn’t true about me being a shit, though nothing about the agent or coach is true—that’s my cover. I rub my temples. “I know. Trust me. I know. I’ll tell him soon.”
“I miss you,” she says.
“Me too.” Guilt washes over me for leaving her alone. My brother-in-law doesn’t allow her to go out with her friends, and I’m one of the few people he does let visit her. I’ve left her more isolated than ever. He wouldn’t have allowed her to come with me for treatment. Of that much, I was sure. Not unless he could come too, and if there is a last person in the world I wouldn’t want to see, it is Felipe Conde, followed closely by Dad. “I’ll call more often,” I promise.
“Good night.”
“Night, Pili.”
Half of the bottle of wine is gone, and I pour the rest down the sink before bedtime. I lay down on my makeshift sleeping bag next to the window and stare at the smooth ceiling. Taking deep breaths, I repeat my intentions over and over into the echoes of the empty apartment, exactly as I would do before any fight.
“Get back to fighting.”
“Beat the shit out of cancer.”
“Get back to fighting.”
“Live.”