Don’t Make Me Turn This Life Around

by Pagán, Camille

  “It’s okay,” he said, pouring himself a glass of water. He looked back at me and smiled again. “Any day in the sky is a good day.”

  “Any day we’re alive is a good day,” I said, mostly to myself. “Did you eat already?”

  He drained his water, then nodded. “Grabbed a sandwich at work.”

  “There are leftovers if you decide you want something more,” I said. He still hadn’t mentioned my appointment, but I figured he would as I retrieved a bottle of sparkling wine from the fridge. It had been in there since New Year’s Eve; neither Shiloh nor I was big on booze, and we had fallen asleep long before the ball dropped. But if there were ever a time to pop that cork, this was it.

  “I’m good,” he said as I grabbed two glasses from the cupboard. “But don’t let that stop you from having a drink if you’re in the mood.”

  I frowned—had he actually forgotten? The twins didn’t know about my tests because I hadn’t wanted to worry them. But Shiloh and I had discussed it as recently as that morning. “Then skip it, but first let’s toast,” I said, filling each flute halfway. I watched the bubbles settle, then finished filling my glass to the top because this was a big occasion, and as Dr. Malone had pointed out, it was cause for celebration.

  “Does this mean you got the grant?” said Shiloh as he took the flute I was holding out for him.

  He was only human, I told myself, even as I felt nascent tears pricking my eyes. I blinked several times and pushed my lips into a smile. “Try again.”

  “D’oh!” he said, slapping his forehead. “Your test results. I can’t believe I forgot.”

  He looked so genuinely embarrassed that I immediately forgave him. “Thank you,” I said, raising my glass. “Here’s to no evidence of cancer.”

  He brought the edge of his glass to mine and smiled at me. “Here’s to you, cutie. I wasn’t worried, but this is still a huge deal. I’m so happy for you. For all of us.” He looked at me for a moment, then added, “I don’t know what the girls and I would do without you.”

  “Thank you,” I said. He’d just said all the right things, but as I took a sip of my wine, I didn’t feel any better than I had walking out of Dr. Malone’s office that morning. She’d pointed out that it was normal to expect the worst—which explained why I’d had to struggle to keep my mood afloat the last month or two. But what was my excuse now?

  He put his glass down, then wrapped me in his arms as if to reassure me that his memory lapse had meant nothing. If that was his aim, it was working.

  “I was going to hit the hay,” he said, nestling his face in my hair. “Wanna join me?”

  For what was possibly the first time that day—really that week—I felt a spark of excitement. But that had always been Shiloh’s effect on me. While he was unflaggingly kind, preternaturally calm, and wise beyond his years, much of my attraction to him came down to chemistry. There was something about being with him that made me feel alive in a way nothing else could. Even a quick roll in the hay would hit the restart button on my mental state.

  We skipped flossing and brushing our teeth and hopped into bed in our underwear, which in and of itself felt like returning to a land before children. “Hello, stranger,” I said, curling closer to him. Then I slipped my hand beneath the duvet.

  Well, okay, I thought. We weren’t spring chickens anymore; it could take a while to get clucking. Anyway, he was kissing me and seemed like he was into it.

  But there’s a while—and then there’s a while. “Are you not in the mood?” I finally whispered.

  “I’m fifty-five, Libby,” he said quietly.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled, my cheeks burning. Age hadn’t been an issue last year. Three months ago, even. But this was the second time this had occurred in the past several weeks. And as it happened, we’d only attempted to make love twice during that time period, which meant we were zero for two. “I just thought when you asked me to come to bed with you . . .”

  He sighed deeply, then kissed my forehead. “I didn’t realize how tired I was. It was a tough flight back and I’m just really fried.”

  “Oh . . . I didn’t realize that. Let’s forget this happened.”

  “Thanks, and sorry.” He kissed me on the lips this time, but it wasn’t enough to take away the sting. Maybe he sensed that, because he added, “Next time. Promise.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said, pressing my lids closed. It was one thing for him to have forgotten about my appointment. But to have no interest in intimacy . . . Well, that was another thing entirely. We’d met on the way to Vieques, a tiny island off Puerto Rico’s east coast that I’d fled to after my cancer diagnosis; he’d been the pilot on my flight and had saved us both from crashing after a bird flew into the plane’s engine. And though I’d been planning to forgo treatment—having seen my mother suffer through chemo and radiation only to die anyway made me resolve to avoid the same ordeal—being with Shiloh had transformed everything, really, right down to my will to live.

  Sex was what made us us. Who would we even be without that?

  We’d be me and my ex-husband—that’s who. I’d loved Tom dearly; still did, in fact. But when I’d tried to tell him I had cancer, he’d misinterpreted my distress and revealed that—surprise!—he was gay. Though it took a while to get over his having lied to me for nearly two decades—we’d begun dating as teens—he remained one of my closest friends. Honesty aside, the only thing that had really been missing between us was sexual chemistry.

  Stop it right now, I ordered myself. Had my mother moped about the overproducing disease spores that robbed her of her chance to see her children reach adulthood? No, she had not. She had acted like her cancer and the treatment that was supposed to save her but ultimately sapped her body’s ability to fight were no more important than the weather—worth an occasional remark, but certainly not something to waste time and energy focusing on. Meanwhile, my circumstances were approximately four thousand times better than hers had been. I was free of cancer and full of life. And didn’t Shiloh show me how much he cared every single day?

  I waited until he began snoring lightly to slip out of bed and throw on my robe. I didn’t bother turning on the lights as I padded into the kitchen, where my sparkling wine was on the counter where I’d left it. Every relationship went through lulls, I told myself as I took a sip. If anything, I should have been cheering about having already enjoyed thirteen passionate years with my husband. Sure, the girls had acted like I was either a maid or invisible all afternoon. But it wasn’t news to me that having a family wasn’t always kittens and roses.

  Tiny beads of air exploded at the back of my throat as I tossed back what was left in the glass, making my eyes water. The byproduct of carbon dioxide: that’s all those pesky tears were. Because I was alive and well, and I was not about to cry over that.

  “I love my life,” I said aloud as I raised my glass to the night sky, which was winking at me through the kitchen window. And I did. I did.

  I did.

  THREE

  When I awoke the next morning, Shiloh had already left for work. He often took off before the rest of us were up in order to try to beat the traffic, but I had to wonder if this time it was an attempt to avoid discussing what had happened the night before. Just as well; it wasn’t like asking him if he was still attracted to me was going to put the zing back in his thing. More likely it would have the opposite effect. Anyway, it was a new day—another chance to feel like myself again.

  Isa was still sleeping, but I found Charlotte sitting on the kitchen counter with a bowl of cereal on one side of her and a vial of insulin on the other. Her shirt was hiked up, and she was sinking a needle into the fold of skin she’d grabbed with her free hand. What a champ—she didn’t even flinch anymore.

  “Hey, kiddo. You calculated how much you need?” I said, trying to sound casual as I ruffled her hair. As we’d learned over the past year, managing blood sugar was more complicated than just running the numbers. Insulin-to-car
b ratios were key, but we also had to figure out how Charlotte’s body reacted to heat, physical activity, and even certain foods (pizza, in particular, was a land mine, which she’d discovered one evening when her blood sugar wouldn’t come down).

  “Yes, Mom. Not that I want to think about it, but it’s been, like, a year. I know how to count carbs. And yes, I put it in the app,” she said, referring to the tracking log she kept on her phone. She held the needle out to me. At least I wasn’t so annoying that I’d been banned from menial tasks.

  “Great,” I said cheerfully, ever cognizant of the fact that Charlotte was influenced by my attitude whether she realized it or not. I deposited the needle into the medical waste box next to the trash can. “You having some protein, too?”

  “Milk has protein in it.”

  Not as much as her dietitian recommended. “Let me make you a crispy egg,” I said.

  “Gross. No.”

  Up until a few months ago, “crispy eggs,” as she used to call my fried eggs, were her favorite. “Then make sure you track your sugars carefully,” I said, switching on the coffee maker. “I’m going into the office this morning and having lunch with Uncle Paul. But I’ll be home by five. Can you send me updates every two hours?”

  She shrugged, which was not the reassurance I’d been aiming for. “I’ll probably go over to LaToya’s to see if she wants to play soccer. Or maybe Cecelia’s.”

  “Why don’t you hang out with Isa?”

  Charlotte looked at me like I’d just suggested she jog down the middle of the highway.

  I sighed. “Fine, but please text me to let me know where you’re at and when you leave—and tell your sister to do the same. Bring your insulin and meter, okay?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” she said, shoveling cereal into her mouth.

  “Oh, and Char?”

  She stopped and glanced up at me, looking so much like the sweet, funny girl she’d always been that I almost blurted out my test results. But all these years, I’d been careful not to make too much of a big deal about my having had cancer, as I knew all too well how awful it was to worry about your mother dying. Yesterday’s appointment was a conversation that was best dressed up in casual clothing and trotted out to both girls at the same time.

  “Papi should be home by five thirty, so let’s all have dinner tonight,” I said. “Sixish?”

  “Whatevs.” She hopped off the counter. “See you later.”

  “Already looking forward to it. Love you,” I called.

  I waited for her to say it back, but then the front door slammed and she was gone.

  “Morning, Libby!” Rupi, my operations manager and all-around MVP, had popped up from behind her computer monitor like a Muppet.

  “Morning!” I said, hoping I sounded more chipper than I felt; after all, I was the boss. Twelve years earlier, I’d started the Charlotte C. Ross Foundation, which was named for my mother and funded programs for children who’d lost a parent to cancer. Now we had eight full-time employees, including me. “You sleep here again last night?”

  This was our routine: Rupi was always the first to arrive, and usually the last to leave, and I always said something about it. She laughed. “It’s going to be a busy day. But before we talk about work . . .” She motioned for me to come closer, even though Kareem was the only other person at his desk, which was all the way across the room. “How did your appointment go?” she whispered.

  I smiled—at least Rupi hadn’t forgotten. Like me, her mother had died of cancer when Rupi was still young. It was part of the reason we’d grown close over the four years she’d been with the foundation. But even more than that, her unflappable cheer made her great company. In fact, she was probably exactly who I needed to be around right now.

  “Great! I’m cancer free yet again—and in fact, next month marks a decade.”

  “Oh my gosh! That’s amazing.” She jumped up and hugged me. Unlike Dr. Malone, Rupi didn’t try to squeeze the stuffing out of me. She had the kind of motherly hug that gave me the warm fuzzies. Except today I didn’t feel much of anything, which was almost as alarming as my nonresponse at the doctor’s office. “I had a feeling it was good, or I wouldn’t have asked,” she added.

  “I love your optimism,” I said, but this time I had to remind myself to smile back.

  “Takes one to know one. Hey, do you have a minute?”

  “Of course,” I said, because I’d much rather chat with Rupi than read through the several dozen emails that had probably landed in my inbox since I’d checked it in bed that morning.

  “Your office?” she said.

  I tried not to look surprised. “Sure,” I said, motioning for her to follow me. She pulled the door closed behind her, which was doubly curious—we weren’t really a closed-door kind of operation. “You’re not leaving the foundation, are you?” I said.

  I’d been joking, but when she responded by laughing nervously, I wondered if maybe I shouldn’t have been. “No, no, it’s nothing like that,” she said, her voice an octave higher than it had been a moment ago. “I just wanted to bring something up.”

  “I’m listening.”

  She sat in one of the two aging armchairs on the other side of my desk. “I’m wondering if you have any plans to evolve the foundation beyond . . .” She motioned to the rest of the office behind her. “What we’re currently doing.”

  “Do you think that we’re not doing a good job?” I asked, working hard not to frown. “We gave away five million dollars last year and only directed eighteen percent of donations toward overhead. As you know, that’s half of what most nonprofits spend.”

  “I know, and we’re all super proud of that.” Rupi was twisting her hands in her lap. “I just think CCRF would benefit from some new initiatives. Maybe even our own program.”

  I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but this was not it, and I felt myself growing irrationally upset. Yes, I’d built this company out of nothing but an idea and the firm belief that I would find a way to make it happen. Yet I knew Rupi wanted it to succeed as much as I did, and she had every right to make suggestions about the future of the foundation. Even if said suggestions were as logical as trying to burn extra calories by leaving brownies in the oven too long.

  “We fund programs, Rupi—we don’t run them,” I said, careful to keep my tone in check. “Creating and running a program would take resources we don’t have, and I don’t know how realistic it is to think we can shift from something that’s super successful to something completely unknown.”

  Rupi sat up straight, and I had the distinct impression whatever she was about to say had been prepared in advance. “I think we do have some of those resources. As you know, I implemented several programs at Lighthouse,” she said, referring to her previous employer, which had been devoted to the needs of adults. “Kareem has a background in events—”

  “And he does a wonderful job using that background to set up our donor banquets,” I pointed out. Same team, Libby, I reminded myself. “Respectfully, Rupi, we’re a child-focused organization, which Lighthouse isn’t.”

  “Exactly!” she said, all big eyes and earnest nodding. “Which is why I think we should open a summer camp upstate for kids who’ve recently lost a parent. I mean, wouldn’t that just be incredible? You always say that good ideas start as a desire, right? And that when you add hard work into the mix, you can figure anything out?”

  I guess I had said that, but now that I was hearing someone else repeat it, I wanted to reach back in time and slap myself for mistaking a motivational poster–worthy slogan for business acumen.

  “And this one is just screaming my name!” she continued, oblivious to my internal debate. On the one hand, she was literally my most valuable employee, and I wanted to support her. On the other, I was ready to run out of the door and tell her to call me when she was back to being dependable, right-sized-idea-generating Rupi. “I still remember not being able to talk to anyone about my mom dying, and how isolating that was,” she sa
id, her dark brown eyes brimming with tears.

  “I know the feeling,” I admitted, because although I had Paul, he was all I’d had; for the longest time other kids had treated us like our mother’s death was something their parents could catch if they spent too much time around us.

  But mostly I was thinking: A camp?

  A camp involved buying or leasing land. Buildings. More staff, all of who would have to be trained in dealing with kids who were grieving. And loads and loads of cash.

  “I love that you’re going out of the box for this,” I said—except I didn’t sound even remotely convincing, even to myself. I tried again. “I agree that it’s a wonderful idea, and I would have loved something like that when I was a kid, too. But I thought you were going to suggest doing a one-day event, maybe, or a conference. This is a huge initiative, Rupi. A summer camp requires so many things we simply don’t have.”

  “I totally get that, which is why I’m willing to figure out a lot of the logistics before we discuss it again. I know it’s not something we could pull off this year, or maybe even next. But three years from now, Camp Charlotte could be open and operating,” she said.

  Camp Charlotte had a lovely ring to it; my mother would’ve been thrilled with it. Which meant I should have been, too. But mostly it felt like one more thing.

  And what was wrong with that? After all, I wasn’t about to start cancer treatment again, as I’d been secretly preparing myself for since Dr. Malone’s office called to say I was due for another CT scan. Charlotte’s diabetes was relatively well managed, even if I wished she’d take it more seriously. And I’d gotten through the worst of grieving over my dad’s death. Wouldn’t a new project be just the thing to reinvigorate my career zeal, if not my lust for life?

  “Please say you’ll at least think about it, Libby?” said Rupi. “I know it’s wildly ambitious, but I’m more excited about it than I’ve been about anything in a long time, and I really believe we could get buy-in from the whole team.”