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Pilar doesn’t engage the topic I tried to broach. Instead, I bring her up to speed on my treatment and we say our goodbyes and end the call, both of us sad but also a bit hopeful.
There’s nothing left to do with the rest of my day but lay on my hospital bed and rehearse what I want to say to my parents. They need to know that while I share a big part of the blame for pushing off my regular checkups, they could have prevented it all. They need to know what a mistake they have made. And maybe, if I’m brave enough, I’ll tell Dad precisely what I think of him. I was always too intimidated by him to do that. My young age and dependability prevented me from confronting him with his failures as a father, but now I am old enough to know better. My spine has strengthened, and this experience with cancer has matured me more than just physically. It would be now, or it would never be.
I’m saved from having the dread of time suffocating me by Rory finally showing up.
“Hey,” he says but can’t look at me.
“Rory!” I smile at him.
“Just came to drop off your key. I got all my stuff out of your apartment, and you don’t have to see me ever again—”
“Rory, you don’t have to—”
His voice deepens. “Yes, I do. I have to.”
“Chema is my coach. Not my husband.”
His head snaps up, and his eyes narrow, searching for the truth.
“He only said that so he could get my medical information.”
“He can be arrested for that,” Rory says.
“No. He won’t. I’m okay with it. Frankly, I’ve put him through hell.”
“So you two, you were—”
“No,” I shake my head. “He is my coach and a good friend—that’s it.”
Rory doesn’t seem fully appeased, but he takes a step forward, giving me hope.
Chema walks in then, clutching a mammoth cup of coffee that still looks puny in his hand and a bag with something that smells wonderful. “Brought you some breakfast,” he says cheerily. “Hello.” He smiles at Rory as he hands me the paper sack.
“Hello,” Rory says but blinks as he tries to make sense of the situation.
I open the bag to find what I can only assume are burritos.
“Can you believe they put eggs in burritos?” Chema asks.
I shake my head and chuckle. My dear friend is about to have the same rude awakening with food I had when I first arrived. The truth is, I haven’t eaten a burrito but a few times in my life. The last I remember was when my father had a trip to Chihuahua in Northern Mexico, where the burrito is king. It was one of those rare occasions when he brought his cumbersome family along. But those burritos had delicious grilled meat and beans with fresh avocado slices. Not eggs and cheese so greasy it leaks out of the flour tortilla rendering it soggy.
Still, I’m famished and take a healthy bite, which I have to admit, is not half bad. “I guess you two met while I was out of it?” I ask through the chewing.
Both men nod.
“I explained to Rory you’re my coach,” I say to Chema, “and not my husband.”
Chema looks at Rory a bit sheepishly but still sizing him up with his glare. I’m proud when Rory stands tall, not at all intimidated by the meathead in the room.
“I’m sorry about that, buddy,” says Chema. “I’m her coach. Actually, I’m—”
“Also a good friend,” I say. Chema side-glances me.
“Oh.” Rory cups the back of his neck.
“Sorry for the misunderstanding. As you can imagine, Valentina here had me and her family worried. I had to take drastic measures.”
“Right, um, well, anyway, I assume you are staying with Valentina for a bit?” Rory asks.
