“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.”