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Chapter 11
The Broken Girl
Valentina’s test results from last week were back, and I called her in for a follow-up appointment.
She waited patiently in exam room five. My face fell when I saw her. She looked better physically. Her hair was growing back into a sort of a pixie cut, and some of her weight was back, though her muscles weren’t yet. But what threw me off was her pale complexion, her tightened lips, and, most of all, her perfectly-shaped eyebrows, almost fully grown in to their previous length, pulled-in, a crinkle forming between them.
“What’s wrong?” I asked her. “Are you not feeling well?”
“You tell me,” she said.
“Nothing’s wrong, Vale. But you look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
Her expression not changing, her gaze fell to the floor.
“I read on the forums,” she said, “that if it’s good news, I get it over the phone. If it’s bad, they call me back in for a follow-up.”
“Oh, Vale, honey—”
“It’s back, isn’t it?” Her breath hitched as she formed the question.
“No!” I hastened to answer. “Valentina, I wanted to give you the good news in person. That’s all. Please stop reading about treatment or procedures online. It’s not the first time it’s gotten you in trouble.” I arched an eyebrow at her.
“Good news?” She looked up, hope misting her eyes.
“Yes, Valentina. Good news.” I grabbed her by the shoulders and squeezed them gently. “Six months remission. It’s a great milestone.”
“Really?” A tear spilled over and ran down all the way to her neck. Something inside me moved. Despite the hell and pain I put her through during her treatment, this was the first time I’d seen her cry.
“Really,” I said. “I thought we should celebrate. I’m actually not working right now. Let’s go across the street to the bar. Champagne. My treat.”
When Sofia askedwhat we were celebrating, I looked at Valentina. It was her choice who she wanted to tell—if she wanted to tell anyone at all. Many of my patients who didn’t want family around for the treatment didn’t tell them unless the treatment failed. I was in awe of Valentina. Not a soul helped her or took care of her, not that I knew of. She had zero support system, but she made it through. It was incredible.
“Six months in remission,” Valentina said fiercely. I imagined this was what she looked like after a fight.
“Wow. Congrats!” Sofia said.
“Thanks,” Valentina said.
“On the house.” Sofia placed two glasses of her best champagne in front of us. “All cancer ass-whipping is rewarded atLa Oficina.” Then, she turned to attend to her other customers.
Valentina and I looked at each other, and we started giggling as we grabbed the glasses. I was about to raise my glass to make a toast when Dr. Dennis approached the table.
“Dr. Dennis,” I said.
“Please, Dr. Ramirez, call me Rory outside of work.”
“Okay, then, please call me Carolina.” I smiled at him.
“What are we celebrating?” he asked.
I turned to Valentina who was trying to tame her pixie hair back into place.She is self-conscious all of a sudden,I thought.
“You want to tell him?” I asked her.
“I, um—” the fierceness with which she’d told Sofia was absent from her voice. “Remission. Six months.”
“That’s great!” he blurted a little too enthusiastically for my taste.
