One Vegas Night

Chapter 1

CATARINA

Last Wednesday

It all began with a simple, short notice that took me by surprise.

Good Day Miss Vidal,

Your H-1B visa has come to an end. Thank you for your stay. Once you arrive back in Spain, you’ll be able to reapply for your visa.

Sincerely,

United States Department of Immigration

After staring in disbelief for a solid twelve seconds at the note, I crinkled the paper up in my fist, and my jaw hung open as Phil, the hospital’s lead immigration liaison, pursed his lips together. “Sorry about this,” he said.

“Sorry? Sorry?!”

He nodded grimly. “This has happened multiple times this past year with the new legislation.”

I tried not to hyperventilate. “Thank you for your stay? Like I was at a hotel. I’ve been living here for eleven years!”

“My, your English is very good for. . . where did you say you’re from, again?”

“Catalonia.”

He squinted. “What’s that?”

“It’s a province of Spain.”

“Oh?” he raised an eyebrow, then shuffled some papers around on his desk like he was actually doing a job. “Why didn’t you say you’re Spanish?”

Don’t change the subject.

I took a deep breath and plastered a smile on my face.

“I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding.

I came here from Europe for undergraduate studies eleven years ago.

I was supposed to have my citizenship by now, anyway.

I’m one of the top oncology physicians in the country.

My research has been published multiple times in the New England Journal of Medicine. ”

My beeper buzzed with another notification. As I checked it, Phil tried to make small talk about how these regulations come and go, and wasn’t it weird that I was from a place he’d never heard of?

I felt my blood start to boil. I didn’t feel like explaining the last one hundred years of Spanish history to him, and how Catalonia had its own language and history, which were suppressed by the Spanish dictatorship. “Let me know what your boss says, okay?” I asked with a smile.

He examined me. This often happened when people found out I wasn’t born in the U.S. They wanted to size me up.

Yes, I’m a doctor.

Yes, I moved here at age eighteen.

Yes, I speak perfect English.

Why is that all so hard to believe? It’s not like there’s some magical thing that happens when you’re born on United States soil. Although, I do love this country.

He shrugged. “I do my damnedest to stay up on new legislation, but in the end, it’s the individual’s responsibility.”

My beeper went off again.

I blew out a loud exhale and straightened my glasses. “Listen, Phil. Do you know how much time I spend at work?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant. This new law—”

“Thirteen hours,” I cut in. “Yesterday I was on my feet working for thirteen hours. I don’t have time to keep up with every single new nuance of immigration law. That is what—correct me if I’m wrong here—your office is supposed to do.”

His face reddened.

“I wish there was something I could do. The unfortunate truth is that sometimes these things slip between the cracks. It happens.”

I rubbed my forehead with my thumb and forefinger, looking down, and closing my eyes.

It was times like these, I remembered why I’d chosen the path I did: not because it was easy, but because I wanted to help people.

When I was eight and my dad died of cancer, I vowed to wage a war on this ‘cancer’ villain that took my father from me too soon.

It just so happened that Yale—thousands of miles away from my small town in Spain outside of Barcelona—had a phenomenal pre-med program for what I wanted to do. So I decided to apply and got in.

My pager buzzed with another notification.

“Just my staff asking where I am,” I said after looking at the text. “I guess I’ll tell them I’ll be back in Spain for a few months!”

“That’s not a bad idea. If you can swing it, take a little vacation,” he said, trying to offer a kind smile. “Look, I’m sorry this happened. Once you’re in Spain, we’ll communicate via email and we’ll sort this out. But for now we’ve got to follow the law.”

I stood up. “I’m sorry as well,” I said, my eyes welling with tears I refused to cry.

For the rest of the day, I smiled and nodded and did my best to stay tuned in to work, but I could feel my emotions being spread thin.

On the other hand, the severity of the illnesses I dealt with kept things in perspective.

No matter how bad something seemed, there was always someone who was worse off.

I succeeded in going through the motions of telling the staff I would have to be gone by next Friday.

But I had to be realistic. My patients needed to be smoothly transferred, and I had to get the incoming doctors up to speed on all of the details of the patients’ treatment.

I offloaded all of my shifts except for one next Wednesday and Thursday so I could come in and make sure all the loose ends were tied off with patients.

When evening came, I was dead tired.

I parked in the same spot I always did right outside my condo.

I ordered Chinese food from the same place I’d been getting it from for years.

Heck, I even made the same exact order of fried rice, one egg roll, and chicken with pea pods.

I was a creature of habit, and I had become accustomed to my sterling clean apartment and my nightly routine.

After I ate, I collapsed on my couch with a book.

My phone buzzed with a notification from Rex, the guy I’d been dating.

Well, ‘dating’ was an overstatement if I was being honest.

We matched on a site, and for the last four weeks we had been trying to find a time to meet that worked with both our schedules.

I hadn’t even seen him in person yet, and I was already exhausted from our non-relationship. I sent Rex a quick message about how we would meet up ‘at some point for sure.’ I was too tired to explain my visa situation to him.

Still, I was feeling down, so I called my best friend, Phoebe. She didn’t pick up but called me back a minute later.

“Hey,” I said, my voice cracking a little.

“Sorry I didn’t pick up,” she said. “There’s a fight on TV just now. I’m kind of getting into it.”

“A fight? I didn’t know you were into boxing.”

“No,” she chuckled. “Better. A hockey fight. Turn on channel ten right now.”

I turned it on and saw a rowdy crowd cheering as our Washington D.C. Cougars hockey team played against the Chicago Tigers.

A Chicago player was being escorted off the ice by the referee.

“What happened?”

“Just wait for it. They’ll show the replay.”

They showed the play. A Chicago player, Dustin LeBlanc, had just knocked out one of ours, Landon DeMarco.

“Holy crap. Is he going to be okay?” I said, referring to Landon, who was doubled over on the ice.

“Yeah, he got taken out pretty hard.” She giggled as they showed the replay again.

“It’s a little sadistic that you enjoy when people get hit like that.”

“I spend all day in the ER with death and dying. I’ve got to get my release somewhere.” She sighed. “I wish Dustin LeBlanc would show up in our hospital at some point.”

“I don’t really follow hockey, but isn’t he a huge dick?”

“Obviously! He just punched that guy in the face. But I guess you hope that a guy like that can become your huge dick, you know?”

I furrowed my brow. “I think I get what you’re going for, but I’m not sure that sounds how you want it to sound.”

“I bet he’d look really good sans shirt.” Pheobe laughed. “Sorry, you called me and I hijacked the conversation. What’s up? Tough shift?”

“A good shift. A great one, actually. One of my patient’s scans came back cancer free so I got to break the news that they’re now in remission,” I said.

“That’s terrific!”

“But then I was notified that my visa had expired.”

“What the hell? How is that even possible?”

“That’s what I thought!”

“So annoying. Can we get it sorted out before the weekend? It’s probably just a paperwork mixup. Happens all the time with government stuff, right?”

“I don’t think I’m conveying the seriousness of the situation. I’m being sent out of the country. I have ten days left.”

She was silent.

“Phoebe?”

“Sorry. I just put you on mute to swear. This is absolute bullshit!”

“I know.”

“So does this mean you’re not going to the Cancer Sucks Conference this weekend?”

I rubbed the back of my neck. The Cancer Sucks Conference—the CSC—was the most fun we had all year. There would be celebrities, golf, dancing, dinners, and inspiring feel-good speeches throughout the weekend. I was supposed to give one this year, in fact.

“Come on! You have to go! Maybe we’ll like, be able to solve this visa issue.”

I laughed loudly. “In Vegas?”

She shrugged. “You could get married. Wouldn’t that fix your visa problem?”

I rubbed the bottom of the locket my dad gave me when I was six, before he was diagnosed with cancer. The act of rubbing it had always been soothing to me. “Don’t be ridiculous. I haven’t even slept with a man in nine months. Let alone have any marriage prospects.”

“There will be lots of cute guys there. Celebrities.”

I watched as the TV showed one more replay of Dustin LeBlanc punching his opponent in the face. “I mean, I guess I’ve got to go, don’t I?”

“It’ll be a last hurrah. We’ll have to get crazy. I’ve entered us in the celebrity golf outing on Saturday, so pack something cute but athletic-y.”

“Anything for you, Phoebes.”