“I get it if that freaks you out,” he teased. Then he grew serious. “Really, Libby. I know it’s early, but that’s what I’m feeling, and I don’t really believe in holding good stuff back.”
“I’m not freaked out,” I said, and it was true. “That was lovely. Thank you.”
Yet it was impossible to not think of the first time Tom said he loved me. It had been early for him, too—just months after we began dating. “You’re wonderful, Libby,” he whispered to me, just after he had leaned over the gearshift of his old hooptie and kissed me goodnight. “I’m in love with you. No—it’s not just that.” He touched my cheek. “I love you.” I was so astounded that I couldn’t respond, but in my head I was thinking: I love you, too, Tom Miller. I have loved you since the day I laid eyes on you, and I will love you forever and beyond.
What I felt for Shiloh was different from that, and maybe that’s why I continued to let myself indulge in it. Because in spite of the whirlwind way we’d come together, and the instant attraction I had toward him, I didn’t have the same crazy, intense feeling that I’d had for Tom. Instead, my affection felt calm and right and . . . like something that just was.
After we made love that night, I lay in Shiloh’s arms, bereft yet content. Through the open window, lapping waves competed with nothing but the sound of his heartbeat in my ear. The breeze was cool against my cheek, but the heat of our skin warmed us beneath the thin duvet. His leg still slung over mine, Shiloh began to snore. After a minute or so, he roused and turned toward me. “Night, cutie. Love you.”
“I love you, too,” I whispered back.
TWENTY-NINE
I rose just as the sun began to peek over the horizon. Shiloh was facedown on the bed, fast asleep. The sight of his bare back was still a minor shock. I knew Tom’s every freckle and facial expression, exactly where to touch him—just below his left shoulder blade—to make him dissolve into laughter. I had no idea whether Shiloh was ticklish, and while he had freckles, I couldn’t say with certainty where a single spot was located.
I would never learn.
I tried to push this idea into a cobwebbed corner of my mind as I quietly opened the back door. Still in the T-shirt and underwear I’d slept in, I walked out to the empty beach and went directly into the sea. It was cold—far colder already than when I’d arrived—but it was my last chance to feel the Caribbean on my skin, so I waded in anyway. The waves rose past my knees to my waist, enveloping the incision that throbbed but no longer stung, and finally covering my chest, so that my T-shirt bubbled and floated around me like a jellyfish. As I bobbed in place, staring out at the beach and the house from the sea, I considered how easy it would be to let myself be carried off by the tide.
The thought no longer tempted me. Not even a little.
The fear had not subsided. I did not feel like a brave woman warrior ready to take on the literal fight of my life. But I no longer welcomed the idea of being in command of my own death.
When I returned, Shiloh was making coffee. “You ready for today?” he called from the espresso machine.
I finished toweling off, then walked into the kitchen and kissed him. “Not even a little.”
“As much as I want you to stay . . .”
“Yeah.” I accepted the coffee cup he handed me and took a sip. “I know.”
“Libby. Don’t—” He stopped abruptly.
“Don’t what?”
He shook his head: nothing.
“Don’t what?” I pressed.
“Please don’t change your mind about treatment,” he said quietly.
I cocked my head, thinking of how I’d been unable to channel my inner Ophelia in the sea not ten minutes before. “Now why would I do that?”
“I don’t know, actually. But I just worry . . . you haven’t talked about it once since Paul left.”
“I’m going to deal with it when I get to Chicago.” Or New York, I thought; at this point, it wouldn’t much matter either way.
Shiloh put his arms around my waist and pulled me close to him, burying his face in my hair. “You promise?”
The word sat heavy on my tongue. I swallowed hard, then let it roll out. “Promise.”
After the sheets had been stripped and the surfaces had been wiped clean and I’d made one last walk around the beach house, Shiloh and I locked the door behind us.
Milagros was waiting in the courtyard. “Mija,” she said, her arms outstretched.
I hugged her tight, even though it made my stomach hurt a little.
“Old Milly will be here when you’re ready to come back to Vieques,” she told me.
I attempted a laugh, knowing that if I did see her again, it would likely be at a location several light-years north of Puerto Rico.
She misunderstood my halfhearted response. “Verdad,” she insisted. “I may be wrinkled, but I’m healthy as an old thoroughbred.”
“Oh, I know you are,” I assured her. “Believe me, I know.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Where do you go from here, Libby?”
“First Chicago, then to New York, to be with my brother.”
“And what will you do after you’re done with the doctors?”
“I’m going to put one foot in front of the next, take each day as it comes, and try not to focus on Tom or my diagnosis. Beyond that, I have no idea.”
She stared past me for a second, then met my eyes again. “Smart girl. Don’t look back too much, you know? You’re not going that way.”
My voice caught. “Gracias, Milagros.”
She took my hand and squeezed it. “I’ll miss you. But”—she released my hand and flipped it over, then stuck her index finger in the center—“something here tells me we’ll meet again in a happy place.”
I peered down at my palm. “Really?”
Her eyes twinkled. “You tell me, mija.”
We returned the Jeep and took a shuttle to the ferry. Fingers entwined, we said little on the boat ride over, and even less on the drive to the airport. When we got there, Shiloh was able to use his pilot’s badge to go through security with me. I was collected—stoic, even—until we reached the gate. The agent had begun the boarding process, and I took one look at the line of passengers lined up for the jet bridge and fell into Shiloh’s arms.
“I can’t believe this is it.”
“Neither can I. Libby . . .” He was laughing and crying; we were both on the verge of crumpling. “You made me feel something that I didn’t even know it was possible to feel.”
Me, too, I thought. Me, too.
It took everything in me not to suggest we reunite when he visited his mother in New York, or propose that I return to Puerto Rico after treatment. Unkeepable pledges and pacts would cheapen what we had shared.
Instead, I put my hands around his neck and kissed him long and hard. Then I told him I would love him as long as I lived, because it was the truth.
“I meant what I said,” he told me, reaching into his pocket.
My stomach made a beeline for my bladder as I watched him pull out a small, unwrapped box.
He took one look at me and began to crack up. “Don’t freak! It’s not a ring.”
I managed a small laugh. “Thanks, I think.”
He put the box in my hand and told me not to open it until I was in the air. I said I wouldn’t.
The agent called for all passengers to board. Shiloh and I looked at each other: this was it. I kissed him one last time, trying to memorize what it was to have this with another person.
“Good-bye, Libby,” he said into my ear.
“Good-bye, Shiloh.”
I boarded the plane just before the doors to the jetway closed. Averting my eyes from the curious gazes of the people seated near me, I hunkered down in my seat, wiped my tears, and stared out the window. As the plane lifted into the sky, I shoo
k the box lightly. The clunk-clunk-clunk of metal on cardboard confirmed it contained jewelry.
There’s something uniquely unnerving about accepting a gift from a person you love. Tom’s gifts were unfailingly practical: a fitness-tracking bracelet for my birthday, a planner and pen for Christmas. He knew exactly what I needed, to the point where it was almost like having my own personal shopper. Every once in a while, though, I would peek under the lid of a gift box and wish that instead of a pair of fleece gloves, I would find, say, a sexy bra set.
So as the plane lifted into the clouds, it was with no small amount of trepidation that I peeked beneath the lid of the box Shiloh had given me.
Nestled on a cotton pillow was a thumbprint-size star charm made of rose gold, dangling from a delicate chain. Shiloh had tucked a small slip of paper beneath the cotton.
Libby,
Thank you for the past month. It was one of the brightest of my life.
Shiloh
The charm, which I rubbed between my fingers like a worry stone, was perfect. Shiloh’s note: perfect. Our affair and my vacation were, in the most roundabout way, absolutely perfect.
And now it was all over.
THIRTY
Chicago greeted me at the jet bridge with a gust of frozen air. I collected my bags from luggage claim, then zombie walked to the L train on the other side of the airport. Sitting on a hard bucket seat, I watched the train rise from beneath the ground until it was above the city. As leafless trees and buildings streamed past in a gray blur, I told myself, This is a mistake. I’d never been one for second-guessing, but then again, I’d never before been kicked in the teeth by cancer only to be sucker punched by my husband. Why had I come back to a place that was a massive symbol of all that had been, and perhaps still was, wrong with my life?
But a promise was a promise, and I’d made the same one to both Shiloh and Paul. So after I got off the train and let myself into my echoing, ice-cold apartment, I dialed Dr. Sanders’s office. When I gave the receptionist my name, she told me to hold. A few minutes later, Dr. Sanders came on the line.
“I wasn’t expecting to speak with you,” I said.
“I’m between appointments,” he said, as though this explained everything. “Elizabeth—”
“I believe we established that I go by Libby.”
“Libby,” he said, “have you sought medical care since, um, our last visit?”
I finished gnawing on a hangnail before answering. “Not really. That’s kind of why I’m calling. I’d like to find out what my options are.”
He exhaled. “I’m relieved to hear that. I’d like you to start by meeting with the team here. You’ll need a scan, blood tests, then an appointment with oncology . . .” He droned on like this for a while.
“Okay,” I said when he’d finally stopped talking. “When?”
“Really?” He sounded surprised, disappointed even, like he’d been geared up to make more of a case for himself. “I can get you in for testing as early as tomorrow.”
It was my turn to sound surprised. “Really?”
“Yes. I don’t want you to wait a second longer. I’ve been chatting with a chief oncologist here, and there’s a clinical trial that you may be a candidate for—well, I’m getting ahead of myself. We’ll talk more when you come in. Stay on the phone and Kelly will arrange everything for tomorrow and beyond for you. Eliz—Libby, I’m so glad you called.”
Tomorrow was as good a day as any. Of course, I wasn’t planning to get treatment in Chicago, but I would explain that when I saw him.
Though it was only five p.m., I was exhausted and had already texted both Paul and Shiloh to let them know I’d arrived. There was nothing of any importance to do. I slowly lowered myself off the counter and went to the bedroom, where I stripped down and slid between the icy sheets. I fell asleep almost instantly, and woke several hours later, feverish and beaded with sweat. Disoriented, I reached beside me, expecting Shiloh to be there, or maybe Tom, only to realize I was on my own. My heart sank. I closed my eyes and waited for unconsciousness to set in.
The next morning, swaddled in the warmest clothes I hadn’t sold, donated, or shipped off to Paul’s, I walked the few brisk blocks to the L. The Blue Line took me to the Loop, where I transferred to the Red Line.
“This is Chicago. Clark and Division is next,” said an electronic voice as I reached my stop. Passengers rushed past me toward the train’s double doors, but I couldn’t seem to unstick my feet from the laminate floor.
Ding-dong went the alert.
“Doors closing,” said the voice overhead.
But I just stood there, as motionless as Lot’s salt-pillar wife, until the train began to move again.
I rode the Red Line until the last stop, then turned around and took the opposite path home. I could have gone to my appointments late or rebooked the first one that I missed, but I didn’t.
“Don’t change your mind about treatment,” Shiloh had said. He must have known that when push came to shove, I couldn’t even bring myself to step inside a doctor’s office. That deep down, I was too afraid.
When I returned to the apartment, I called Jess, making the decision just an instant before I pressed the Call button.
“Are you free?” I asked before she could greet me.
“You’re back?!”
“Sadly, yes. Wanna get a drink?”
“Christ, Libby. It’s not even eleven o’clock in the morning. Are you feeling okay?”
Not really, I thought. “We can meet at noon if it would make you more comfortable.”
“Now is good.”
“Great. Café De Luca. See you there.”
De Luca was halfway between Jess’s apartment and my own; we’d spent many hours there over the years. She was perched at the bar when I walked in, but immediately hopped off her stool to greet me. “Libby, you look . . .” She regarded me with what can best be described as suspicion. “Skinny,” she concluded. “Slightly disheveled, but so damn tiny! And you’re tan! I’m jealous.”
I smiled; I was happier to see her than I had expected to be. “Guess extramarital sex agrees with me.”
Jess’s mouth popped open.
I laughed. “Sorry, did I say that out loud?”
“Tell me everything,” she said, dragging me back to the bar, where she ordered us a round of champagne.
I asked her how she’d been, but she waved my question off, eager for me to recount my trip. Her mouth was still hanging open when I finished. “I can’t believe you left your Latin lover behind!”
“Shiloh,” I said.
“Sorry, Shiloh. Does Tom know?”
“Of course not.”
“Probably for the best.” She tugged on one of the numerous thin, crystal-studded leather bracelets roped around her wrist. “He talks about you nonstop. He really wants to see you, Libby.”
I took a sip of champagne. “I’m sure he does.”
“Really, Libby. I’m being serious.”
“Whose side are you on, Jess?”
“Yours. Obviously,” she said, with a hint of exasperation. “It’s just that this is hard for Michael and me, too,” she said. “I don’t agree with what Tom did, but he’s like a brother to Michael. You know that.”
I drained my glass, then stared at the couple of air bubbles remaining on its sides. “Please don’t tell me about hard. I have cancer.”
“That is not funny.”
“No, it’s not,” I agreed. “Not even a tiny bit.”
Jess stared at me. “Are you for real?”
“For a limited time only, my dear.”
Her eyes welled with tears. “Oh, God, Libby. I am so sorry. What happened? When did you find out?”
I gave her the quick-and-dirty version. “So, that’s why I’ve been running around like I’ve had a partial lobotomy,” I c
oncluded.
She shook her head. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“I don’t know. It just seemed like too much at the time.”
“What can I do to help, Libby? I’ll do whatever you need. Do you want me to talk to Tom for you?”
“Thanks, Jess. That means a lot to me. I know it’s a lot to ask, but would you mind not saying anything to him? I’m not ready for him to know. I’m not sure I ever will be.”
Jess must have been taking it easy on her beloved Botox injections, because the line in her forehead deepened at least half a centimeter. “You’re not going to tell him? Even after everything, he is your husband.”
I sighed. “Was, Jess. Tom was my husband. I’m not exactly brimming with self-knowledge right now, but I know enough to say with certainty that I don’t want him involved with anything relating to my health status. So would you mind helping me with this one thing?”
She nodded.
“Thank you.” I slid off my seat and gave her an enormous hug.
“Are you hugging me right now, Libby Miller?”
“I might be, but don’t get too used to it.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m going to New York for a while.”
“For treatment?”
“Something like that.”
She laughed and planted a kiss on my cheek. “Come back sooner this time, okay? And when I call you, pick up the phone.”
I smiled. “I’ll do my best.”
As I was falling asleep that night, a strange sensation overcame me. I was awake, but my body was paralyzed; it was almost as though I were encased in liquid glass, unable to move—not even to open my eyes. My chest was heavy, my breathing labored, and panic set in. The cancer’s spreading, I thought to myself. It had been more than a month since diagnosis, and I had already been fairly sure malignant cells were swimming through my body, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. I did not need one of Dr. Sanders’s fancy tests to tell me time was running out.
Life and Other Near-Death Experiences Page 18