Life and Other Near-Death Experiences

by Camille Pagán

I flipped through a few pages of the album before pausing at a photo of Tom and me standing in the middle of a busy downtown street. We were on a strip of raised concrete that divided one direction of traffic from the other, but with my wedding dress spread out over the cement, it looked like we were parting the cars. Tom had tipped me backward to kiss me; just behind my head, a bus, blurred by distance and speed, charged toward us. When I saw the shot after the wedding, I thought it was cute. Cute! Like, Look, my marriage is so strong that this two-ton city bus can’t shatter it!

  That girl, who couldn’t identify a metaphor if it ran her over? Who believed her future held a house full of laughing children and a husband who would love her for the rest of her life?

  I didn’t know her anymore. I wondered if I ever really had.

  TEN

  After my mother died, I wanted to die, too. I don’t often think about that time; mostly I pretend it never happened. Our family has almost no photos from the year that followed the funeral, but the few that exist reveal an uncomfortably overweight girl with short, self-shorn hair; her brother, who, while thin and hauntingly beautiful, was every bit as uneasy in his skin; her father, a bereft middle-aged man with a lightning strike of gray running through his curls; and a shadow where a wife and mother should have been standing beside them. You can see why I don’t like to reminisce.

  In the end, I recovered, as did Paul, and we did it by hiding away from the world—ditching our friends, dropping activities we’d once excelled at, doing the bare minimum in school, burying our noses in novels, and cultivating a disturbing appreciation for horror flicks (which appalled our father, who nonetheless handed over his Blockbuster card because he worried that saying no would cause even more trauma to our fragile psyches). What little we spoke was to each other or Dad; slasher films aside, we wanted to protect him as much as we motherless pubescent humans were able, and ignoring him would have had the opposite effect.

  This is all to say that isolation worked, so it’s not terribly surprising that after my adult life fell apart in the span of a few short hours and continued to crumble in the days that followed, my instinct was to re-create the people-less bubble that once brought me peace. I needed to get to a better place so I could live like I was dying. Which is surprisingly difficult to do if you are in fact dying, as opposed to, say, singing along to some canned song written by a guy who has never had anything more serious than the stomach flu, or reading a fridge magnet to remind yourself that if this were your last day on the planet, you would have a tub of Cool Whip for dinner—dessert first and all that—then go line-dancing with your friends.

  I didn’t want to sing. I didn’t want to gorge myself on imitation dairy or put on cowboy boots. But if I could just ignore the world for a month or two, I was confident that I would eventually be able to fully immerse myself in life’s little pleasures while I still had a life left to live.

  If the voice mails I received in the thirty-six hours following the Death and Divorce Sale were any indication, solitude was a tall order.

  PAUL: “You know I don’t like it when I don’t hear from you every day. Call me or I’m going to send a diving crew into the Chicago River to look for you.”

  DAD: “Paul told me about Tom. I’m so sorry, honey. I love you. Call me when you get a chance.”

  JACKIE: “Libby, you cow! Come back before I send a messenger to drag you here by the hair. The holiday ads will kill me if I don’t have an assistant, so stop sulking and get your bovine butt in the office. Now!”

  PAUL: “Libs? Knock it off and call me.”

  PAUL: “Libs. Today.”

  RANDOM MEDICAL RECEPTIONIST: “This call is for Elizabeth Miller. Elizabeth, Dr. S—” (Delete.)

  JACKIE: “Libby, this is not amusing. Get your dimpled a—” (Delete.)

  PAUL: “Regret to inform you that if you do not pick up your phone soon, I will be forced to get on a plane and come find you. Although that would require getting in a large hunk of metal and catapulting myself into the air at the mercy of a plebeian who makes a mere hundred and fifty-six thousand dollars a year to operate said metal, and as you are well aware, I’d rather wax my sac than do that. So call me, okay?”

  JACKIE: “I spoke with HR. There’s an extra fifteen thousand in it for you—” (Delete.)

  RAJ: “The listing’s live and I’ve already had a few inquiries. I can start showing as soon as you’re ready. Talk soon.”

  TOM: “Um.” (It sounded like he dropped the phone.)

  TOM: “Me again. Are you okay? Can you please call me?”

  DAD: “It’s me again, Libby Lou. Please call me when you can.”

  I texted Paul a photo of the empty apartment as proof of life, then hopped up on the kitchen counter and called my father back.

  He sounded like he was trying not to sound tired. “Hey, kiddo. Paul told me about you and Tom. I’m . . . I’m just really sorry. You deserve better.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said, and even though I promised myself that I wouldn’t, I sat on the other end and cried. “There, there,” he said at one point, which made me cry even harder.

  “Sorry,” I sniffed when I could finally speak again. “Let’s talk about something else. How’s Dolores?” As far as Paul and I could tell, my father had been dating Dolores for about two years, but he insisted on referring to her as his “friend.”

  “Oh, she’s good. We went to see a movie last week,” he said. I pictured him sitting in his small cedar-shingled bungalow, watching the Tigers in his Red Sox town, then going to bed alone. Even more than I regretted marrying Tom, I regretted not going to visit my father more over the past few years. I’d been wrapped up with work, and trying to get pregnant, and—well, every excuse was lame, and now none of it mattered. Maybe I would shorten my trip to a month so I’d have more good time with him.

  “I’m thinking of going to Mexico, Dad,” I told him. I didn’t supply that I’d quit my job and already booked a ticket.

  “Mexico? Honey, isn’t that a bad choice, seeing as how the two of you went there on your honeymoon?”

  I hadn’t really thought of it that way, I confessed as I ran my hand along the countertop, which was cool to the touch. Tom claimed white soapstone was overdone to the point of being tacky, but it was one of the few features of the apartment I really liked.

  “Every time you see a taco or sombrero you’re going to think of Tom,” my father said. “Is it okay if I say his name, or is that too much?”

  “It’s okay.” I pictured Tom snorkeling beside me in the Gulf of Mexico. A giant stingray had just passed beneath us, and Tom, knowing I was panicking, calmly took my hand and gently tugged on it, signaling for me to follow him back to the shore. When we surfaced, he wrapped me in a dry towel and hugged me tight until my teeth stopped chattering. That was the thing about Tom: he always made me feel safe and warm. Now, when I most needed that sense of security, it was no longer available to me.

  “Okay, good, because if I tried not to, I would probably end up saying it all the time. Anyway, honey, why don’t you go somewhere else? Like Hawaii. No, that’s too romantic, and that wouldn’t be good . . . hmm.”

  “I’m still here, Dad,” I reminded him. He was in the habit of talking to himself, which was getting worse as he got older.

  “Sorry, kiddo. Oh! I know. Puerto Rico. Go to Puerto Rico,” he said. “One of the best beaches your mother and I ever went to was on the southern side of this little run-down island called Vieques.”

  “Really?” I asked. He did that on occasion—surprised me with some story about my mom that he’d never mentioned before, as though he was saving it up for just the right moment.

  “Yep. The navy was there then, and the locals weren’t too thrilled about that, but I read in the paper that the government moved out a few years ago. Anyway, unless things have changed, it wasn’t a couples’ destination, and it was terrific. There was this bay where the water lit up at night,
and there were horses running wild all over the place . . . your mother always said she wanted to go back one day.”

  “Huh,” I said. The lit-up bay bit made him sound a little touched, but I was nonetheless intrigued.

  He continued. “I think you’d like it. Everyone speaks English and Spanish, so that’s easy, and it’s a US territory and you don’t have to worry about changing your money into pesos or what have you. Although I do worry about you traveling alone. Maybe Paul could go with you, or your friend Jen,” he said, meaning Jess.

  “I’ll look into it, Dad. Thanks for the suggestion.”

  “You’re welcome. You know I love you, right, Libby Lou?”

  I felt the sobs coming on. “Dad, I’ve gotta let you go, but I’ll see you soon, okay?”

  “I hope so, kiddo. I really do.”

  Even as I cried, I noticed it again—that speck of hope shining through. After all, my father had just provided me with the most inspired idea I’d had since stabbing Tom. My days were numbered, and I was wasting time in a city that was home to my sort-of-ex-husband, my should-have-been lover, and the doctor who’d given me the worst news of my life—but I didn’t have to stay. And why should I, when there was a Spanish-speaking, non-passport-requiring, solace-providing beach destination just a short plane ride away? Of course, I would be wasting money by abandoning the Mexico trip, but for once I didn’t care. The cash couldn’t go with me when I crossed over.

  Yes, I would go to this Vieques Island and find out why my mother had loved it. I would go right away.

  Tom ambushed me as I was leaving for the airport.

  “Where are you heading, Libby?” he said, stepping out of the stairwell in front of our apartment.

  I smiled out of habit, but then the more evolved neurons in my brain reconnected, and I remembered that this man was no longer my ally but rather the enemy.

  “Fire!” I yelled, because I once read this was the fastest way to get help if you were being attacked.

  “You can’t keep running,” he said, although he took a step back. He was probably afraid, and rightly so, that I would pull a kitchen utensil out of my coat after I finished accusing him of arson.

  “Watch me,” I retorted, attempting to skedaddle. With two large suitcases attached to my person, this was a bit of a challenge.

  Faced with my imminent departure, Tom lunged forward to grab my arm. I jerked away, which sent the larger of the two suitcases tumbling. I’m sorry to report that my hand was still firmly clamped around the handle, so away I went—bump, bump, bump, belly-down on the stairs, the synthetic carpet grabbing at my incision like Velcro. I gritted my teeth, willing myself not to cry out in pain. The suitcase and I landed in a pile in front of the ground-floor apartments.

  One of my neighbors, whose name was Bill, maybe, or Will, stuck his head out the door, probably curious to know who was making such a racket at eight in the morning. “Hello?” he said. Then he looked down at me. “Yeesh! Are you okay?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tom approaching. “Help!” I cried. “My ex-husband is trying to kill me!”

  “Knock it off, Libby!” Tom said, although he had gone to the trouble of carrying my second suitcase down for me.

  With some effort, I stood up. There was a searing sensation radiating from my stomach, and I was fairly certain that half of my stitches had just been ripped out, but I was going to have to learn to get used to pain. Perhaps the Brookstone store at the airport sold self-hypnosis CDs.

  “Should I call someone?” Bill-or-Will asked, glancing at Tom, who was now standing next to me.

  “Only if you hear me scream again,” I said. Then I turned to Tom and opened my mouth wide, the corners of my lips curling upward in a creepy clown smile.

  The neighbor closed his door, although I was willing to bet he was lingering on the other side, waiting to see if our marital strife would play out as comedy or tragedy.

  “Libby,” Tom warned. “Please stop it. I just want to talk to you. I need you to know that this isn’t your fault. Your behavior tells me that you don’t actually know that. I think you should see a psychologist.”

  “My fault?” I said. “My fault?! At what point did I give you the impression that I think I am the reason you are attracted to men?”

  “Can we please go somewhere else to talk about this? Like our apartment?” He sounded exasperated.

  “See, that’s the thing,” I said. My stomach really hurt, and it was hard to separate that from the anger I felt toward Tom. “You insist on talking to me when I clearly do not want to talk. You tell me I should see a shrink. You’re a control freak, Tom, and you think that this—you ending our marriage—is something you can control. Well, I’ve got news for you: the show’s over. How I react is entirely up to me. Me!” I yelled, channeling my nephews yet again. “Not you.”

  He looked almost as surprised as when I’d forked him. “I’m sorry, Libby. I was only trying to be helpful when I said you should see someone. You should, you know. You’re not acting like yourself.”

  “The Libby you knew is dead, Tom,” I said. “And by the way, I changed the locks. Until I get back and hire an attorney, you’ll need to find somewhere else to live.”

  I took my luggage and rather ungracefully maneuvered it through the front door, down the sidewalk, and onto the curb. Then I stuck my fingers in my mouth and whistled for the livery cab I had called to take me to O’Hare. The rest of my life was waiting, and I did not intend to be late.

  ELEVEN

  Great mother of pearl! Liquor was powerful stuff. While I wasn’t sure I liked it, I had a feeling it might come in handy as I prepared to meet my maker. Historically, I had no strong feelings toward alcohol one way or the other, but aside from the occasional beer or celebratory glass of champagne, I’d largely avoided it because Tom’s father was an alcoholic, and not the jolly, highly functioning type. Even mild inebriation made Tom uncomfortable.

  But his concerns were no longer my own, so after learning I had two whole hours to kill before my flight, I pulled a move that was decidedly un-Libby-like: I walked into an airport bar, sat down, and told the bartender to serve me what he would have if he were making a drink for himself. (In hindsight, perhaps this was not the best idea, as the bartender’s capillary-spidered cheeks said he’d spent the better part of his life downing highly flammable spirits.) “Dirty martini,” he said, pouring the contents of a silver shaker into a deceptively small cocktail glass with a flourish. I didn’t know what to do with myself, so as bitter and medicinal as the martini was, I set about drinking it as though each sip would make it more appetizing. Which proved to be true.

  Five minutes later, it was gone, so I ordered another one, which I drank slower as the room began to tilt ever so slightly. Gin seemed to supply a gentler buzz than Tom’s sleeping pills (though I brought those with me, too, just in case). On the other hand, I knew that if I finished the second martini, my carry-on would never make it with me to the gate, so I left half the murky liquid in the glass, paid my bill, and went wandering through the terminal.

  Many believe O’Hare International Airport to be the very inferno Dante spoke of, but I don’t mind it. The bookstores are good, the food isn’t half-bad, and while you encounter the occasional screaming traveler, most people who pass through are distantly friendly in that Midwestern way. Also, there’s a Brookstone, which I located roughly four and a half miles from my gate. The store was fresh out of self-hypnosis CDs, and much to the saleswoman’s frustration, I didn’t see the point of buying soothing ocean sounds when I would be on the beach the following morning. So I plopped down in a massage chair and treated the contents of my stomach to a reenactment of the bartender’s martini mixing.

  I’d just closed my eyes when I heard someone squeal my name. “Libby?! Libby Ross Miller, is that you?”

  No, no it most certainly is not, I thought, sinking lower into th
e leather seat and pushing my feet against the floor in a desperate attempt to make the chair swivel. Alas, it was nailed firmly to the floor, so I opened my eyes and confirmed what I already knew to be true. It’s funny, isn’t it, how a person can gain or lose a ton of weight, get her nose done, or do any number of things that would make it difficult to recognize her across a crowded room—but she says one word and you can immediately identify her? So although I had not seen Maxine Gaines in a good fifteen years, all I needed to hear was the first syllable of my name to know exactly who was calling it from behind a stack of self-massage tools.

  As she rushed at me, I reluctantly stood to greet her. “Libby, OMG! How crazy to run into you after all these years!” she screeched.

  While I trusted plenty of humans who didn’t deserve it, those who eschewed full words in favor of spoken acronyms did not make the cut. “Yeah, crazy,” I said.

  Maxine and I were friends in high school, probably because I was one of the few people who would tolerate her insufferability; her hyper-achieving goody-goody act made my church girl seem like a delinquent who was just a few bad decisions away from becoming an after-school special. I wasn’t sad when I stopped hearing from Maxine once she went to college out east, as she coyly and constantly referred to Princeton, although I accepted her friend request a few years ago, largely because I hadn’t understood the nebulous, passive-aggressive way that online friendships often work.

  “I’ve actually been thinking about you! Are you still in Chicago?”

  “Not really,” I said. “I’m kind of between continents right now.”

  “Wow! And here I thought living in New York was exciting. I’m still waiting to run into Paul, by the way. I’m practically right around the block from him and Charlie on the UWS.” Her tone told me that while she was plenty proud of her ivy matriculation and New Yorker status, she was even more impressed that my brother’s partner happened to be an actor on one of the top crime procedurals on network television.