“Well, I’m culturally Catholic, so I should probably say yes. But mostly I think worrying about it is pointless.”
“So you don’t believe in heaven.”
“I didn’t say that. I mean, sure, it sounds cozy, but who knows? Most people don’t really care about heaven. I think they worry about being relevant to other living people, even after they’re dead. But one day there won’t be anyone left who fits that bill. One day this planet will combust, and we’ll all turn into star stuff. Cleopatra? Abe Lincoln? Adam and Eve? Relevant to no one.”
“Well, that’s optimistic.”
“It is, kind of. It takes guts to stop fretting about the unknown and concentrate on the present moment. That’s what matters, anyway.”
“And what if your present moment sucks? And you can’t even imagine what the future looks like, let alone fix your hope on that?”
His breath was hot on my neck. “But does it? You’re dealing with some ugly stuff, Libby. But does right now, this very moment, suck?”
I leaned in, my skin tight with anticipation as his lips grazed my flesh. “No,” I whispered.
“Then enjoy it,” he whispered back.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The apartment. I’d nearly forgotten all about it. With several thousand dollars’ worth of commission hanging in the balance, Raj, bless his heart, had not.
“Time to make it official, Libby. You still planning on coming back to Chicago?”
I was sitting in the side garden. Not far from my feet, a couple of inky black birds were fighting over a few crumbs that had crumbled from the baguette I was gnawing on. “That is a very good question, Raj,” I said, my mouth still full. Despite my promises to Paul, I hadn’t purchased a ticket to New York. But with just days left in Vieques, it was time to do so. I finished chewing. “For the time being, let’s go with no.”
“Can you change your plans?” he asked. “The way your mortgage agreement is worded, either you or Tom needs to show up to the closing.”
There went my New York flight. I stood up from the bench, sending the birds flying in opposite directions. “Fabulous.”
“And unless he dies between now and then, I’m going to need his signature on everything. You guys are legal co-owners. Let me know where I can find him, and I’ll send him the papers myself.”
I sighed. This wasn’t going to go over well with Tom. “Won’t be a problem, Raj.”
On the one hand, I could make what was left of my life a whole lot easier by faking Tom’s signature, which I could practically do in my sleep. On the other . . . I didn’t really want to make my karmic load any heavier by deceiving Tom about the sale. I decided to consult Milagros.
“Do you believe in revenge?” I asked her.
We were walking down the side of road. Given my run-in with the yellow truck, I wasn’t thrilled to be on foot on a skinny stretch of grass alongside an almost equally narrow swath of asphalt, but Milagros said she had exhausted her beach vocabulary and it was time to teach me something different before I left.
“La venganza?” she said. “Como un payback?”
I replied with my new favorite phrase: “Mas o menos.” More or less. “Like, when your husband cheated on you, didn’t you want to stick it to him?”
She looked at me through narrowed eyes. “How could I stick him when he was sticking someone else?”
I giggled.
“Listen,” she said, “the universe takes care of that. Look at my husband—poor bastard drowned.”
I thought it was her one true love who had drowned, but perhaps he and the cheater were one and the same. Anyway, I’d come to see that Milagros’s past was a parable; taking any of her stories as a literal interpretation meant you would miss the point.
“Don’t bunch your panties up about la venganza. Especially if we’re talking about your husband.”
“Ex.”
“That’s what I said.” She laughed.
I told her about the apartment—how I was concerned that Tom wouldn’t sign the papers, and I was considering forging his signature.
“Y?” she said. “There’s something else.”
I had to tell her; I should have weeks before. “I have cancer,” I said quietly, bracing myself for a slew of questions.
But Milagros just nodded. “Your ex doesn’t know.”
“No.”
“Ay.” She bit her bottom lip and kept walking. “I’m sorry to hear about your health, mija,” she said after a while. “But give him a chance to make the right choice about the apartment.”
I thought about house hunting with Tom all those years ago. I had wanted to buy a split-level apartment in a limestone building in Logan Square. Tom argued that its turn-of-the-last-century quirks—a small kitchen, bedroom closets constructed in corners, the narrow staircase connecting the first floor to the garden level—would make it hard to resell; and besides, it was too far from downtown. This was all probably true, but it felt like a home to me, and I had loved it. Then we went to see the apartment we ultimately bought, which was located on the border of Bucktown and Wicker Park. Though I couldn’t deny that it had lovely light and a layout ideal for entertaining, it seemed sterile. Tom argued that it was simply because the building was new construction. What’s more, it was mere blocks from Jess and O’Reilly’s place, and in a rapidly appreciating, if overgentrifying, neighborhood that was close to almost everything. I did not relent because of these points, but because Tom was in love with it and I was in love with him, and I wanted him to be happy. It was quite possible that he would not willingly part with that happiness.
“Even if giving him the choice may leave me in a bad situation?” I asked Milagros.
“Si. Otherwise, you are just as bad as him. Now where were we?”
“You were teaching me the word for—” A four-wheeler whizzed by and I jumped back, pulling Milagros with me. She stumbled, then leaned into me, sending us both tumbling to the ground.
“—cars,” I said as a searing pain shot through my stomach.
Milagros rolled off me and pushed herself up. “New phrase: cuidao con el carro. Be careful of the car!”
“I’m sorry, Milagros. Better careful than crippled?” I said sheepishly, and stood up.
“Tell that to my hip,” she said, accepting my outstretched hand. “Now come on. We’re not done with your lesson.”
I called Tom shortly after we returned. “I’m giving you the chance to make the right choice.”
“Um, hi,” he said. “Surprised to hear from you.”
“Don’t be. I’m calling because I’ve accepted an offer on the apartment. I need you to sign the paperwork.”
“You don’t mean that.”
I hopped off the counter and opened the fridge. Unless I wanted to attempt to survive on eggs and guava juice, it was time to restock. “I assure you that I do, Tom. I really do.”
“Libby, don’t take this the wrong way, but I really do think you should see someone. My therapist said this would be as hard for you as it is for me. Maybe harder.”
“Did he? How interesting,” I said, shutting the fridge.
“She,” he corrected.
“Well, she is right. This is hard for me. There’s a lot of stuff going on, and I’m in no mood to explain it to you.”
“Like you losing your job?” he asked. “I’m guessing Jackie didn’t sign off on a monthlong vacation.”
I moved on to the cupboard, whose contents were as dismal as the fridge’s. “I did not lose my job, Tom. I quit.”
“Come on.”
“I’m serious.”
He was silent for a moment. “So you’re selling the apartment because you need cash?”
“Actually, I was planning on donating the money from the sale to charity.” If I really did go through with treatment, I would soon require my own charita
ble fund. But now wasn’t the time to divulge this.
“What?” He sounded panicked. “All of it?”
I would have to go out for food, I realized, and slipped on my sandals. “The down payment was never yours. It was never mine, either. It belonged to my mother. And you know I paid for the bulk of the mortgage myself.”
“I suppose that’s true, but sheesh, Libby, don’t you think you should have run your plans past me, given that it’s my home, too? I know I hurt you, and I wish to God I hadn’t. But you can’t just act like we haven’t spent the past eighteen years together.”
I didn’t respond.
“I wish you would have at least let me stay at the apartment while you went off gallivanting in the Caribbean,” he added.
Gallivanting. How very droll were the workings of his mind. “Tom, I’m sure you don’t believe me, but I am sorry. Getting out of Chicago seemed like my only option. But you’re an intelligent person. You’re gainfully employed. I’m sure you can figure it out from here,” I said as I grabbed my keys from the hook near the door.
“Can I?” He was not being sarcastic. “We’ve always done everything together. I miss you.”
Maybe that was why Tom had been making preposterous comments about wanting our marriage to work. We really had done everything together, and he didn’t know how to figure out what to do without me. I sort of wanted to help him, if only out of habit.
“Tom, I miss the ‘you’ who didn’t break my heart,” I said as I locked the front door behind me. “I’ll have the papers sent to O’Reilly’s. Please keep an eye out for them.”
“I’m not signing. I think you’re making a rash decision, and it’s because of me. I can’t let you do this while you’re in a state of shock.”
If only he knew, I thought as I climbed into the Jeep. “There is no ‘letting me,’ Tom. Let go,” I told him. “Tell Jess that I said hello, and that I’m doing fine.”
He didn’t hang up, and neither did I. “Will I ever see you again?” he asked after a while.
“I don’t know.” Unlike the apartment sale, a legal divorce would probably require face time with Tom. The sting of his betrayal was wearing off, though, and it was not unfeasible that I would find it in myself to fully forgive him before we were in the same room again.
“I’m sorry, Libby,” he said. “I didn’t mean to ruin your life.”
The Jeep faced the sea; through the windshield, I watched white-topped waves crest over a thin strip of sand. “Tom, I’m sure you probably won’t believe me, or even understand what I mean by this, but you didn’t ruin my life.” I started the engine. “The truth is, you gave it back to me.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
I bought two one-way tickets: one from San Juan to Chicago, where I would spend a week settling the apartment sale; another from Chicago to New York, where, if all went according to Paul’s plan, I would immediately offer my services as a human guinea pig.
“I don’t want to do this,” I told Shiloh, who was sitting next to me in a tiny café that offered Internet access.
“By ‘this,’ do you mean treatment? Or leaving Puerto Rico?”
“Both,” I said, and clicked the Purchase button for the first fare.
“What do you have to lose?”
Through the window, palm trees danced in the breeze. “Paradise,” I said. Thinking of the many things that would soon be foisted upon me—medication, attention, sympathy—I added, “Control.”
Shiloh drained the contents of his espresso cup. “Control’s an illusion. You know that.”
“Do I?” I said, staring at the Buy Now icon that would enable me to fly from one cold, overpopulated city to another. I clicked it, then turned away from the computer screen. “I mean, I’m not trying to broker world peace here, but I would like to think I have some say over what happens to my brief and newly eventful life.”
“If you say so, cutie.” He got up from his seat and stood behind me, gently running his fingers through my hair. I leaned my head back, wishing there were a way to bottle the relaxed feeling running through my body. “My offer stands. I would be happy to come with you for a few months.”
“You have a life here, wackadoo.”
“Right. My glamorous bachelor pad. My drinking buddies. My family—oh wait. My closest relative lives hours from my apartment.”
“But you just got cleared to fly again,” I protested. “You’ve been itching to get back in the air.”
“And I plan to.” He kissed me lightly. “Besides, you know I don’t operate like that. I like to do what I want, and what I want is to be with you a little longer.”
I was flattered, but it still seemed like an unviable option. “What happens if you and I don’t do so well when we’re farther from the equator, and you discover you just wasted several months of your life with the wrong woman?”
He untangled his fingers from my curls and sat down. “Are we talking about me here, or you? Personally, I don’t care very much about everything working out perfectly, but I’m not going to not take a chance because of all the what-ifs involved.”
I couldn’t come up with a single sarcastic response. Instead, I leaned toward him and kissed him. “I’m going to miss you terribly.”
“I’ll miss you, too. But you already know that.” He kissed me again, then said, “What about after treatment? What then?”
What did happen then? I stared vacantly as my brain cells fired past one another. Suddenly, I was not sitting in a coffee shop in the Caribbean with a man I was fairly certain I loved, but instead walking the cold, wet streets of New York, staring into the faces of a million strangers. I was filling out an endless string of job applications for positions I did not actually want, which would be summarily dismissed by human resources professionals or computerized screening programs that deduced I had not used the correct power verbs in combinations demonstrating my unbridled talent and ambition. I was on a string of progressively bad dates in a city where eligible men under age fifty were rarer than the ivory-billed woodpecker, and single women far younger, prettier, and less damaged than me swarmed like ants. In the future I had managed to conjure up, I was alive, which was more than I’d been able to say about my previous forecasts. Even so, I was adrift and alone.
“Aren’t I supposed to be enjoying the present moment?” I asked Shiloh.
“Touché. In this case, it seems like a good time to start at least contemplating what might make you happy.”
I gave him what I hoped was a sunny smile. “Let me think about it.”
And I did. The next few days were filled with more cafecitos y mallorcas, more strolls on the beach and excursions through untamed parks. A last Spanish lesson with Milagros, which began with travel-related terminology and devolved into the two of us drinking our faces off as she tried to teach me various ways to insult a drunkard. And most of the time, I tried to ponder what it was, exactly, that I might want if I did survive this disease.
It used to be that what I really wanted was a child of my own. Even more than I had yearned to be Tom Miller’s wife, I had always wanted to be a mother, preferably to a daughter named Charlotte, after my own mother (though a son would have made me equally happy, provided he didn’t mind being called Charlotte).
But it didn’t happen for Tom and me, even after years of trying and tests. When the doctor suggested in vitro fertilization—which my insurance did not cover and which cost as much as all of our fancy furniture combined—Tom hemmed and hawed about the expense, and when I said we should try to adopt, he balked, citing the gut-wrenching uncertainty of the adoption process, and said we should just let it go.
And I agreed, even though it was a lie against my soul.
It was not so much that the longing had gone away, but that in light of my marriage and health woes, having a child seemed sort of selfish, if not entirely beside the point.
Bu
t the night before I was scheduled to fly to Chicago, when Shiloh again inquired about what I really wanted, I did not pretend to be excited about a sparkling new career, or a shining outlook on life, or even the possibility of returning to Puerto Rico. Instead, I confessed that if, by some miracle I lived and was given the bonus gift of decent health, it was a safe guess that a child would again preoccupy my wishes.
“A child?” Shiloh said with surprise.
When I held Toby and Max, the heft of their chunky bodies and the silky down of their skin triggered a visceral, even greedy reaction: I wanted to gobble them up, somehow consume all that goodness. To live long enough to have my own child, to experience her first day of kindergarten, her high school graduation, maybe even the birth of her child—well, short of my mother’s resurrection, I could not think of a single thing that would be better. “I get it if that freaks you out,” I told Shiloh.
A hint of moonlight shone on his face. “Who said I don’t want kids, Libby? Just because I don’t have them doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to be a father.”
We’d been lying on a blanket on the beach, looking up at the stars. I sat up and shook the sand out of my hair. “I’m not trying to start a fight.”
“This isn’t a fight; it’s a tough thing to talk about. There’s a difference.”
I sighed and lay back again. “Sorry, it’s a touchy subject for me.”
“It’s okay. It’s touchy for me, too. If you had asked, I would have told you that I would love to have at least one child. A girl, if I had my choice.”
“I always wanted a girl, too,” I admitted. “I’d call her Charlotte.”
He nodded. “For your mother. What about Charlotte Patrícia? That’s a nice name.”
“I love it,” I confessed.
“And I love you.”
I stared at him, half expecting him to say he was joking. When I saw that he was smiling, my chest flooded with warmth. “Wow.”
Life and Other Near-Death Experiences Page 17