OFRENDA

Three weeks ago

My soaked scrubs cling to my body like a second skin and right now I can’t give two shits how they feel or how I look to anyone passing by. Every day, I work twelve to fourteen hours on my feet in the busiest emergency room in Los Angeles. Trauma’s coming in and out — flooding, wrecks, gunshots. You name it, I’ve seen it.

Today’s shift from hell ended like this—me, in the rain, crying on the hospital steps like some sappy telenovela.

Papá’s medical records are tucked inside my bag, protected from the rain “Pancreatic Cancer Stage III”. The doctor said the cancer is what they call borderline resectable, which means with treatment, like chemo or radiation, surgery is a possibility. The only problem is the price tag for those treatments and surgery. Working the farm fields means no medical insurance for the workers, no protection, no help whatsoever. Mi Papi, strongest man I know, reduced to statistics and survival rates. For years, it was just him working and keeping us afloat. Mother dearest didn’t want to be part of a poor family anymore, so she left when I was ten—Miguel was only four. Jokes on her, her new life wasn’t any better. Sure she gets three meals a day made for her, from prison. Which her gracious rich husband sent her to after framing her for fraud. . Ha.

I graduated from Long Beach City College with an associates in nursing a year ago and immediately got a job at this hospital. I realized soon after why they had hired a freshly graduated RN. It’s an absolute hell. Either way, with dad and I both working now I thought we had finally caught a break.

A few months later, Papa’s health started declining. By the time I convinced his Mexican macho ego to go see a doctor, the cancer had already spread.

Growing up, my Tia

Delia had a favorite dicho, “Nomas falta que venga un perro y me meé.”

I guess you could say the sky is the dog, and the rain is the piss because Miguel also received a special letter in the mail that week. Stanford University accepted my baby brother into their biomedical engineering program. A dream come true for him. The first Carrillo to attend university—an Ivy League one, no less. No one was prouder than I was.

There’s just a small little problem, and by little I mean huge. Miguel was accepted with a partial scholarship. We were held in a financial standoff trying to stay afloat where medical bills were jack from Titanic and university tuition was Rose and the door (our finances) weren’t big enough to fit either. There was no way I could pay for Papa’s treatment and Miguelito’s school.

No, esto no me va a ganar. I’m the eldest, and it’s my job to keep this family going. Two pieces of paper have changed our entire lives. One represents a potential death sentence and the other a new beginning. Both papers have one thing in common: a price tag I can’t afford.

“Maldita pobreza. I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I’ll figure it the fuck out,” I whisper into the rain, wishing it could wash these bills and problems away.

I’m gathering my bags when a pair of shiny black shoes appear in front of me. The man stands under an umbrella in a tailored suit—too perfect for a midnight stroll in this neighborhood or a hospital visit. He has sharp cheekbones and a jawline models dream of. His blue eyes are intense and make me feel uneasy but not afraid.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I apologize. “One second and I’m gone.” It’s just my luck a handsome man would find me all mocosa and a complete, utter mess.

“You say you need to figure something out,” he says with a posh British accent.

His words have me freezing in place.

“Something financial perhaps?”

His words make my body hot with embarrassment. No one was supposed to hear a word of my self-loathing. Ay, Ale. You’re out in public talking to yourself out loud like a lunatic and you expect no one to hear you? Get a grip, tonta.

“No offense, but that is none of your business.” I huff, trying to appear tough.

“Of course. But perhaps I could be of some help.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a black business card and extends it out to me between his middle and forefinger.

“Women like you always have options.”

“Women like me?” my voice becomes sharp with indignation. “Look, mister. I may be short, but I’ve had my share of crazies in this place, and you won’t be any different.”

“Feisty little one, aren’t we?” he grins.

I didn’t want to sit here and entertain this asshole’s conversation.

“Beautiful women have long known how to turn moments like this to their advantage. When one is desperate enough it becomes a necessary bravery to do what it takes to survive.”

“What do you mean? I’m not trying to marry someone rich sir.” I pout.

He scoffs. “It’s a benefit that only marriage proposals dream of. A contract yes, but then you’ll be free.” He leans into my ear to a whisper “To do whatever your heart desires sweetheart. Or rather, finally be useful and help those you care about”

I should have known better. I should’ve slapped him and walked off like a bad ass. But I didn’t—because he’s right. I am desperate, and I need help. So, I took the card.

The card had bore in gold lettering: El Santuario and beneath it a gilded phone number.

We stand in silence for what felt like several minutes as the rain continues to pour around us. Droplets slip from my hair onto the card, but the ink does not bleed.

I raise my gaze and tilt my chin up in defiance. “I’m not that type of woman. Nor am I that desperate.” I offer the card back to him.

“No, they usually never are,” he smirks, “Call me when you decide you are ready to… ‘do whatever the fuck it takes.’ Your own words if I recall.” He turns away from me and walks away into the night, leaving me dumbfounded.

I slip the card into my bag, where it stays buried, like a dirty secret, for three days. All it took was one emergency room visit to make me realize I was finally desperate enough to do whatever it takes.