I touched the skin beneath my lip, looked at my finger for a second, then stuck the orange-red digit in my mouth. “Nah, that’s tomato sauce.”
Paul did his own version of the disappearing neck trick. “Enough of the niceties. You, sister love, are in even worse shape than I was expecting.”
“I’m fine,” I protested, but no sooner had I said this than Shiloh appeared on the patio walkway.
I did a little jump: he was back! And just in time to meet my brother! I waved him in. “Paul, this is Shiloh,” I said as he walked into the sunroom. “Shiloh, Paul.”
“We’ve met, actually,” said Shiloh.
“You’ve—what?” I turned to Paul, who looked nonplussed.
“What?” he said. “I had to figure out where you were staying without tipping you off because I knew you’d try to talk me out of coming. Turns out that there aren’t many pilots named Shiloh in Puerto Rico. It took me all of three minutes to track him down. He met me at the ferry to help me get over here.”
Shiloh smiled thinly as I gave him a bug-eyed stare.
“Great,” I said flatly. “Mind if I borrow him for a second?” I said, grabbing Shiloh’s arm and pulling him into the bedroom.
“Cutie, chill out,” Shiloh whispered when we were alone.
“So you didn’t tell him?”
“Give me some credit. It’s not my place.”
I exhaled.
Shiloh looked at the door, then back at me. “You do have to tell him, you know.”
“I know.”
“I’m serious, Libby.”
“So he can talk me into treatment?”
His eyes held mine. “That wouldn’t be the worst outcome.”
“We already know the worst outcome, and my body’s hurtling toward it at warp speed.”
“You don’t know that.”
“But the doctor said—”
“I know what he said. But you didn’t get any of your follow-up scans, did you? Did they look at your lymph nodes yet? Run DNA tests?”
“You’re surprisingly knowledgeable for someone whose last brush with disease occurred around the same time as the Iran-Contra affair.”
“Enough with the jabs, Libby,” he said, too calmly. “Your brother is in the other room waiting for you, and the longer we’re in here, the more curious he’s going to be about what’s going on.”
I almost hit him. Almost. But then my lower lip started trembling and a fog of sadness rose through my chest and head, emerging as tears.
“Now what am I supposed to do?” I whispered.
“You go out there and spend time with Paul,” Shiloh said, putting his hand on my upper back gently. “For the record, he thinks he’s here because you’re having a breakdown prompted by your breakup. But, cutie . . .”
My nickname was back. We would be okay, at least for now. “Yes?”
He wiped my eyes with his thumbs, then kissed my forehead lightly. “Tell him. Right away.”
“You’re awfully quiet,” Paul said, examining me from the other side of the kitchen island. Shiloh left right after we emerged from the bedroom, claiming he was meeting a friend on the other side of the island. “Are you still upset I didn’t tell you I was coming?”
“No, no. It’s just that I’m starving,” I twittered as I stuck my head in the fridge, as though I had not just done sick things to a can of pasta. “You know how I get when I’m hungry.” Bypassing a container of sliced papaya and a container of yogurt, I located the jug of pineapple juice. Then I reached into the cupboard for the bottle of rum I had purchased the day before.
Paul watched me as I put the alcohol on the counter. “Rum, huh? I’ve been trying to get you to imbibe since you were twelve. If I knew it was as easy as dropping you on a tropical island, I would have done that years ago.”
“An island, and a failed marriage,” I said as I poured two glasses, topping both with pineapple juice. I slid one of the glasses to him, avoiding his eyes.
Paul took a demure sip of the drink, sputtered a little, and put it back on the counter. “You’re aware that alcohol isn’t food, right? And I won’t even mention that the gap between your thighs worries me. Skinny isn’t a good look for you, Libbers.”
I glanced down at my legs and realized that for the first time since fourth grade, I could see between them. “If you say so. Anyway, how’s work?”
“Work, shmerk. It eats my life, and I secretly love and loathe every minute of it, so no change there. On to more important things: how are you?”
I took an enormous swig of my drink and ignored his question. “Why didn’t Charlie and the boys come with you? It would have been nice to see them.”
“Charlie’s filming. And I can’t take care of Toby and Max without him, especially not on a trip that involves flying. Besides, I thought it would be good for you and me to have to spend some quality time together.”
“Because you were worried I’m cracking up,” I said. My face was starting to feel hot, and I could feel my pulse quickening.
“Because I love you, you ninny,” Paul said. “Now why aren’t you happier to see me?”
“I am.”
“But . . . ,” he supplied. When I said nothing, he came around to the other side of the kitchen island and stood next to me, as though we both intended to look at the beach together. “Libs, what is it? Did you find out Tom was sleeping with someone already? Is Jackass suing you for quitting? Has Shiloh made you a member of some bizarre cult I need to know about?”
I managed a small laugh. “No, no, and no.”
“Well, then? Come on. While you would certainly be justified to be this blue over your breakup, I’m sensing that there’s something else going on.”
You know what they say about hindsight. It was moronic of me to think I could conceal the truth from the very person who made the transition from zygote to fully formed human being beside me in the womb. Yet even with Paul in front of me, sensing my deception like a dog smells fear, I was considering whether I really had to tell him. Wouldn’t he be best protected if I continued concealing my big awful thing?
“Um, it’s just that . . .”
“Cripes, Libs. Are you trying to give me a coronary?” Paul’s hands were on his hips, and his brow was furrowed; I could only imagine that if I were one of his minions, he’d have already tossed me out of the room.
Still I couldn’t say it. “Let’s go down to the beach,” I told him.
Glasses in hand, we walked to the shore. It was late afternoon, and the sun sagged beneath the clouds. The shore was all but deserted, and we stood at the water’s edge, letting the waves lap at our feet.
“You’re right. This isn’t just about Tom. I’m sick, Paul.”
My brother spun around toward me, but I didn’t meet his eye. “Like, in the head?”
“I’m not joking.”
“Libs, please don’t say what I think you’re about to say.”
“Okay. I don’t have cancer.”
Paul inhaled. “No, you do not.”
I kicked at the sand. “I’m sorry to say that I most certainly do.”
“And when were you going to tell me this?”
“You know. Shortly after I died.”
He threw his still-full glass into the ocean. “Dammit, Libby. Dammit. No wonder you’ve been so dodgy lately.”
“Sorry,” I said lamely.
He didn’t say anything for a solid two minutes. When he finally looked at me again, the pain etched on his face made me wish that rather than cancer, I’d been diagnosed with a fast-acting, flesh-eating bacteria that would swallow me on the spot. “What kind?”
“You’ve never heard of it.”
He reached into his pocket for his phone. “Spell it,” he said.
“Don’t look it up right now,” I pleaded, thinking about
the images I had found online. But I spelled it for him anyway, and stood there, cheeks burning, while he stared at the small screen in his hand.
He took a deep breath and stuck his phone back in his pants pocket. “Okay. We can deal with this. I have a client at Mount Sinai, and he’ll know the best oncologists in the city. Or there’s the Mayo Clinic or Fred Hutchinson in Seattle. We can—”
“No,” I said.
“What do you mean, no?”
“Just . . . no.”
He looked as though he wanted to shake me. “Sorry, Libby, but this isn’t a choice you get to make.”
“Um, yes, yes, it is. It’s my life.”
“Do you hear yourself right now? You sound like a crazy person.”
“I shouldn’t have told you.”
“You are a crazy person, and it’s Tom’s fault,” he said, as much to himself as to me. “You just suffered a major trauma.”
“Two traumas,” I corrected. “And it’s not Tom’s fault. He did me a favor. Otherwise, I would have died never knowing the truth.” Even as I said this, I found myself wishing the exact opposite were true. Yes, I had Paul; but as much as I loved and relied on my brother, it was not the same as having my husband—my purported life partner—by my side when I needed him most. Tom had buoyed me. Really, he was probably the single reason I had stayed so optimistic all those years. His love was like a constantly streaming subconscious message that said, “See, Libby? Even though your mother died, things can and do work out for you.” Now my life raft had thrown me overboard and taken off in the opposite direction. Despite what I’d said to Paul, it would have been easier—so much easier—to leave the world without ever learning Tom’s truth.
I had begun crying, and in an instant, Paul was at my side, soothing me. “We can get through this, Libs. We will get through this.”
I carried on for a moment. Then I rubbed my eyes and looked at him. “I wasn’t kidding, Paul. I’m not going to get treatment.”
He took a step back and glared at me, at once ferocious. “Christ on a cracker, Libs! How selfish can you possibly be?”
“Don’t you think I’m allowed one selfish moment?”
“A moment, yes! An eternity? That’s some bullshit! You know that?” Now he was crying.
“Please stop that,” I said, even as salty tears ran into my mouth.
“I’m going to cry! Get over it!” he yelled. Then he began glancing around.
“What are you doing?” I asked, as if I didn’t already know he was searching for an escape route.
“Leaving,” he muttered.
“Leaving? What do you mean, leaving? You don’t even have any place to go.”
He’d already begun walking. “It’s called a hotel,” he called over his shoulder.
“And how are you going to get there?” I yelled, hands on my hips.
“With my two feet!”
But Paul never left, I thought as I watched him speed walk in the opposite direction.
“Paul!” I cried. “Come on! . . . Come back!”
He stopped and turned around, and for a split second, I thought he would change his mind. Then he hollered, “I’m going to give you a day to think about how incredibly stupid your little plan is. At that point, you and I will get on a plane and fly back to New York together.”
I shook my head. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Fine.” He turned back around and began walking toward the road.
“Paul! Paul!” I yelled, but he was already gone.
TWENTY-FIVE
I thought about calling Shiloh, but felt too dejected to have yet another conversation with someone who didn’t understand my stance on treatment. Instead, I took my horse pill of an antibiotic and proceeded to drink most of the remaining rum. When it became evident that no amount of alcohol was going to soothe the ache in my heart, I swallowed a sleeping pill and got into bed, still fully dressed.
I woke to the sound of pounding. It was dark out, and the glowing red numerals of the alarm clock informed me it was 5:43 in the morning.
Paul.
I bounded out of bed.
He stood at the door, still wearing the now-wrinkled button-down and thin wool pants he’d arrived in yesterday. His eyes were bloodshot, and his dark curls went every which way.
“You look about as hot as I feel right now,” I remarked.
He walked past me into the kitchen and flipped on the lights. “As bad as you feel, as a person with newfound knowledge of his sister’s cancer, I guarantee I’m feeling even more rotten.”
“Only one of us is dying,” I said, joining him in the kitchen.
He eyed me from the other side of the counter. “That’s inaccurate.”
“And how’s that?”
“You can’t die, Libby. You’re all I have left.”
“That’s not true. What about Charlie? The boys?”
He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the counter, and rubbed his eyes. Then he looked up at me. “You’re all of I have left of Mom. And don’t tell me I have Dad, too, because you know it’s not the same.”
“Oh.”
“So now that you see where I’m coming from, I have to ask again: Why would you do this?”
I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I asked Paul to come with me into my bedroom. After locating Y tu mama, I grabbed my laptop off the dresser and climbed on the bed, motioning for Paul to sit next to me. I put my laptop between us and slid the disc into the computer.
“See?” I said after we’d finished the movie. “Now do you understand?”
Paul pushed himself up and turned so we were facing each other. “What I see, dear sister, is a woman in crisis who has managed to confuse real life with Spanish-language cinema. I mean, I understand your initial impulse to leave Chicago behind. I’ve heard the first couple weeks after a person is diagnosed can be surreal—that you don’t feel like yourself. But you’re not Luisa, Libby.”
“No,” I agreed. “I’m not. But I have a reason for all of this.”
“And what would that be?” he scoffed.
“Before Mom died, she asked me to take care of you,” I told him.
He and I both smiled at the ridiculousness of our mother’s request. “She did?”
“Absurd, I know,” I told him. “Mom dying is the single worst thing that ever happened to me. Even all these years later, I feel like there’s a big hole carved out of me. When the doctor told me that I had this terrible cancer, all I could think about was how I was going to put you and Dad through that again. I don’t want to draw it out and make you suffer longer than necessary.”
“Oh, Libs,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
I took his hand, so like my own—it was one of the few physical characteristics we shared. I examined his long, squared-off fingers, then turned his hand over. He, too, had a long lifeline running across his palm. “No, I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have kept you in the dark. But you’ve seemed so happy lately, and I didn’t want to spoil it.”
“I am happy lately. Life with Charlie and the boys is better than I could have expected. But keeping your pain from me is the exact opposite of taking care of me.” He pursed his lips. “I mean, who else is going to tell you you’re looking at this all wrong? Feel free to correct me here, but you don’t even know what stage your cancer is yet.”
I thought about what Dr. Sanders had told me, and the studies I’d read online. “I’m pretty sure the two stages of my cancer are diagnosis and dying.”
“But you don’t know that for sure.”
“No.”
“Exactly. So, come on then. Let’s see it.”
“See what?” I said, already lifting my shirt so he could look at the battlefield that was my stomach.
He regarded the wound for a few seconds, then pulled my shirt back down and looked at m
e. “You’re going to be okay.”
I snorted. “Paul Ross, human MRI.”
He waved off my skepticism. “Now’s not a good time for you to die. It’s as simple as that.”
“I’m sorry that my disease comes at an inconvenient time for you.”
“I didn’t say it was inconvenient. It’s implausible.”
“Now who’s Pollyanna?”
“Stop it, Libs. Just—all I’m asking is that you consider doing this for me, okay?”
“Treatment?”
“Yes. Wherever you want. New York, Chicago, Puerto Rico—it doesn’t matter. With any doctor or hospital you want. I’ll cover anything your insurance doesn’t.”
After my unceremonious exit from work, I was fairly certain I no longer had insurance, which was why I had paid for the doctor’s visit in Vieques with my debit card. I thought it was best not to mention this to Paul for the time being. “You sound like Shiloh,” I told him.
“He’s not so bad.”
I thought for a few minutes. Then I said, “I planned to be here for a month, and I want to stick to that. I still have to finalize the apartment sale. Then—and not a second sooner—I will see a doctor and reconsider my options. Okay?”
Paul managed a small smile. “And come spend time with Charlie, the boys, and me?”
“This is assuming I’m not in the hospital.”
“Perfect.” He hugged me. “Spoiler alert!”
“What is it?” I asked warily.
“Everything’s going to be fine, Libby,” he said, hugging me again. “I just know it.”
“Right,” I said. “Just fine.” I hated to lie to my brother yet again, but there he was, sliding down my old rainbow, and I didn’t have it in me to push him off.
Paul was not one for good enough. No, he preferred to change his banking passwords by the week, triple-check his zipper after leaving the bathroom, and grill a steak past the point at which a person could expect to bite into it without accidentally dislodging a dental crown—just in case. So I was not surprised when he continued to press me about my illness despite my telling him I would consider my options. “You have to tell Dad, you know,” he shouted. We were sitting at the bow of a gleaming white boat that Shiloh had chartered so the three of us could take a day trip to Culebra, one of the small islands we had seen flying in.
Life and Other Near-Death Experiences Page 15