Don’t Make Me Turn This Life Around

by Pagán, Camille

  “Really?” he said, running a hand through his curls. Like mine, they were partially gray, but it looked good on him.

  “I know,” I said. “I told her it’s the opposite of what the foundation does. But she thinks we’re in a rut, and apparently some of the other employees do, too. I told her I’d think about it.”

  “It’s not a bad idea,” he said, reaching into the dresser for a T-shirt and a pair of shorts. “But do you think that’s true about being in a rut? You guys have been doing so well.”

  That’s what I’d thought about my brother’s marriage. “I don’t know,” I confessed. “I’m not super jazzed about the idea, but Paul tells me that coasting is just quitting in slow motion.”

  Shiloh smiled. “You know I love him, but I’m not sure you should be taking business advice from an avowed pessimist.”

  It was the perfect opportunity to tell him that Paul and I hadn’t been talking about my career, but I couldn’t make myself say it. Yes, Shiloh and I had both been through a divorce, so I knew that sometimes an ugly ending could blossom into a beautiful beginning. That didn’t mean I wanted to so much as utter the D word in our bedroom.

  “I do worry I’m in a rut, though,” I admitted.

  He sat beside me on the bed. “At work, you mean?”

  “Well, maybe,” I said, thinking about how lately it had taken every ounce of willpower I possessed to open my inbox each morning, knowing I would have to spend the next hour or three responding to emails. “But I’ve been feeling . . .” I wasn’t sure how to describe the weird funk I’d been dealing with. I hadn’t told Shiloh that I’d been worried about a recurrence, because I didn’t want to spread doom and gloom any sooner than I had to. But now that I knew it had been a false alarm, why didn’t I feel better? I’d had time to process my clean bill of health.

  “It’s more than that.” I took a deep breath, then added, “I’d actually been worried my cancer was back.”

  “Oh, Libby,” he said, looking at me with a mix of tenderness and surprise. Then he kissed my forehead, and my eyes welled with tears. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t want to get you worried,” I said, sniffling. “Anyway, Dr. Malone said it was normal to expect the worst.”

  “Maybe for other people. But that’s not really your style.”

  “I know,” I said, though I didn’t add that Dr. Malone had made a similar comment. “What’s even weirder is that after she told me I was healthy, I should have been jumping up and down and feeling alive. Except I didn’t feel much of anything.”

  As he pulled me close, I realized this was the entire reason I’d just confessed this to him. Just the warmth of his body and the weight of his arm around my shoulders were enough to make me feel better than I had in days.

  “Hey,” he said softly. “That’s normal, too. Remember how I told you how depressed I was after I went into remission? My dad had to remind me to eat and shower.”

  “Well, your wife had just left you,” I pointed out.

  “Sure, but wife or life? I’d argue that I got the better reward—not to mention a fantastic upgrade on the spousal front,” he said, pulling back to wink at me.

  I laughed. See? I told myself. He adores you. Don’t mistake a defeat or two for having lost the battle.

  “Anyway,” he added, “all I’m saying is you can feel incredibly grateful without being overjoyed.”

  “What is it?” I asked, because his smile had just morphed into a full-on grin.

  “You want to feel more alive?”

  “Yes . . . ,” I said hesitantly, still thinking about what had happened when I’d come on to him.

  “I think I can help. You have plans tomorrow night?”

  “Thursday?” We never went out on school nights, even during the summer.

  He nodded. “We haven’t been on a date in weeks.”

  It had actually been months, but who cared? My husband was taking me out for a romantic evening. I was getting flutters just thinking about it.

  “I’m off all day, so say we leave after you get home?” he said.

  My smile fell. “I’d love that, but what about the girls?”

  “Cutie, they stay home by themselves all day.”

  That was true, and I fretted about Charlotte’s blood sugar the whole time—in hindsight, I really should have hired a sitter after we ended up canceling their camps. “I guess I can make them dinner before we go, and ask Isa to keep an eye on Charlotte,” I conceded. “Where are we going, anyway?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “I do like surprises.”

  “Liar.”

  I laughed and nestled into his side again. “You got me. But I’m game for whatever you have in mind.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” he said. “I’m sorry we haven’t even had a chance to celebrate your scans being clear. That’s a big deal.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, because even though it still stung, saying it was all right made that feel closer to true. Anyway, we were going on a weeknight date—and if that wasn’t the opposite of coasting, I didn’t know what was.

  SIX

  Had I survived cancer only to meet my bitter end in the middle of New Jersey? Had I narrowly escaped a brush with death in one propeller plane, just so I could crash in another?

  No. No, I had not.

  But apparently my husband had not gotten that memo.

  I’d first realized I was in trouble when we merged into the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel. “We’re leaving the city?” I’d said, like he’d just suggested a jaunt to North Korea. “But we never leave.”

  Then I realized this wasn’t true at all. Shiloh made this drive several times a week on his way to the Teterboro Airport. By the time I fully gathered what was happening, we were pulling into the employee parking lot. I considered flinging myself out of our moving vehicle and running in the opposite direction, but then I remembered what Paul had said about coasting. Didn’t I owe it to my marriage to try something new?

  “Are you sure this is safe?” I yelled. There were just two seats in the whole tin can of a plane, which was far smaller than the ones he flew for work, so I was seated to his right. However intimate the setup, the acoustics weren’t so hot, so I had to attempt to blow out my vocal cords in order to be heard.

  “Don’t worry, I would never do anything that wasn’t safe, and conditions are perfect, Libby—that’s why I wanted to go out today!” Shiloh yelled. “And you’ve been fine on all the other flights we’ve taken!”

  Sure, on large commercial planes manned by not one but two pilots, just in case. This was not that.

  “Wait until we’re up a little higher,” he added. “This will be fun!”

  Fun? Who’d said anything about fun? I’d wanted romance. Not an activity that was best experienced wearing a panty liner.

  But at least he was trying, I reminded myself. He looked so happy, and it would be over soon; there was absolutely no reason to burst his bubble.

  “You okay?” he hollered.

  “Great!” I said through gritted teeth, but that’s about as far as I could get because my breath started getting shallow and ragged. When I’d said I wanted to feel alive, I hadn’t meant by being reminded that I was going to die—and soon. “Oh, sweet Cheez-Its!” I yelped as the plane began to dip. Had I given a copy of our will to Paul? How would Charlotte manage her diabetes without me?

  “Libs? Do you want me to take us back down?” he said, glancing over at me. “We’re about to hit smoother air, but say the word and we’ll be on the ground in five.”

  I was staring at him, and even though my parasympathetic nervous system was seconds from blowing a fuse, he looked so handsome and hopeful that I just couldn’t bring myself to tell him I hated everything about this experience.

  “I’m fine!” I gasped. “Just find that smoother air, okay?”

  To myself, I thought: Well, if this is how it ends, at least I’ll get to see my parents again.

 
Seconds later, the ride did get noticeably less choppy. And knowing Shiloh would ask me the minute we were on the ground, I made sure that I found something to like. It wasn’t impossible: To my right was the Hudson River and New York’s jagged skyline, which never failed to dazzle me. In front of us, there was an expansive forest filled with oaks and evergreens—this, just a few miles outside of the city!—and to my left, a small town that looked absolutely idyllic, at least from the sky.

  But as I dug my nails into my thighs, all I could think about was whether this flight was a sign that maybe my husband and I weren’t actually on the same page.

  “I’m sorry, cutie. It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

  “It was fine,” I said, even though my hands were still trembling a little. I’d tried to skirt the subject on the drive back to Brooklyn, since I hadn’t wanted to make him feel bad. Now we were home and sitting on the patio, sipping the prosecco he’d bought. Though he hadn’t said as much, I knew it was a do-over for the other night. The thought alone counted for a lot. And who knew—maybe a glass of bubbly or two would be just what we both needed to move our party into the bedroom.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, looking so bummed that I had the urge to comfort him. “I know you don’t like to hear about bad flights, but I honestly had no idea you were really afraid of flying.”

  “I’m not,” I assured him. Shiloh, who’d been my pilot on the flight I took from San Juan to Vieques thirteen years earlier, had narrowly pulled off an emergency landing on said flight. But thanks to Paul’s proclivity for reciting random statistics, I knew a person was more likely to die eating barbecue wings than in a plane (not that this had alleviated Paul’s flying phobia). “I just think I’m not cut out for small planes.”

  He frowned. “Yeah, but now that I’m thinking about it, you never say yes when I ask if you want to go flying with me.” He put his palm to his forehead. “Rookie move, Velasquez.”

  “Hey,” I said, reaching across and touching his arm. “Don’t beat yourself up. I really appreciate you trying. But maybe we go to the movies next time?” I said, even though I was on record as this being the adult version of parallel play; whether we saw a rom-com or one of those war films where no fewer than twenty-eight people are blown to smithereens in the first five minutes, one of us was bound to suffer.

  Now that I was thinking about it, why couldn’t we agree on a movie?

  “I’ll do better next time. But for now, let’s finally celebrate.” He lifted his glass to me. “To love, life, and your continued good health. Salud, Libby.”

  It was a lovely sentiment, even if I might have overheard the same toast at, say, a business dinner. “Salud,” I said, forcing my lips into a smile.

  “When I met you nearly thirteen years ago, I had no idea that we’d be sitting here together one day, let alone celebrating your complete remission,” he said, staring into my eyes.

  Okay, I thought. This is an improvement.

  “I’m so happy for you,” he added. “For us. You’re the glue that makes this family stick together.”

  Yes, I was—and I was glad he’d reminded me of that. It was time to stop nitpicking and start being grateful for the experience I was literally in the middle of. “Me, too,” I said. Then—and I’m still not sure why—I blurted out, “Paul and Charlie are getting a divorce.”

  Shiloh, who’d just taken a sip of his wine, coughed so hard he nearly choked. “Pardon me?” he said when he’d recovered.

  “Sorry,” I said with a grimace. “Bad timing. But yeah. He told me at lunch yesterday.”

  He looked incredulous. “Where is this coming from? They seemed fine.”

  “That’s what I said. He claims their chemistry isn’t there anymore,” I said, watching Shiloh to see if his expression changed.

  “Huh,” he said. “I guess that can happen, but is that really a reason to end a good marriage?”

  It was all I could do not to wince. Was he trying to tell me something?

  He continued, oblivious to the fact that all of the rejection and disappointment I’d been attempting to hold down had just floated right back up to the surface. “But it’s not like chemistry is some fixed entity. You have to work at it. Anyway, every relationship has its ups and downs.”

  It did, and hearing him say that instantly lifted my mood. “That’s what I told Paul.”

  “Great minds,” he said, but then his face grew serious. “Did he say anything else, though? They really don’t seem unhappy together.”

  “They don’t,” I agreed. Not two years earlier Charlie had finally won a best actor Emmy for his long-running role on a popular TV police procedural show. And in his acceptance speech, the first person he’d thanked was Paul—the father of his children, he’d said tearfully, the man who had helped him realize his full potential, the love of his life.

  If that wasn’t enough, what was?

  “He didn’t elaborate, but between us I have to wonder if Charlie even wants this. Paul’s the one who initiated it,” I said. I didn’t add what he’d told me about his emotional affair, since that seemed like a secret he wouldn’t want me to share, even with Shiloh. “I don’t understand why he can’t just be grateful for what he already has instead of thinking he should try for something different or better.”

  “Yeah, but that’s kind of the human instinct, isn’t it?” said Shiloh, reclining in his chair.

  I frowned, recalling what Paul had said about Andy’s attention. “Is it, though? Or is that just what people who don’t want to stay married tell themselves?”

  “I’m not saying it’s a good excuse. But novel experiences are what get people out of bed in the morning. Maybe that’s what’s going on with Paul.”

  “Maybe,” I allowed, even as my mental wheels began spinning. If that was true, why hadn’t our flying excursion made me feel any better? However terrifying, it was novel. “He says it started around the time—” My voice caught. “Around the time my dad died.”

  Shiloh leaned forward and took my hand. “I’m sorry, Libby. Grief can do weird things to people. I bet he’ll realize he’s making a mistake and try to reconcile.”

  “I hope so,” I said softly. “What will Christmas and birthdays and family dinners be like without Charlie?” I shook my head. “You know, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m actually a little glad Dad isn’t alive to see this go down.”

  Not half a year earlier, my father had come to visit. He and I were cleaning up after dinner while Shiloh and the girls went to the bodega to get ice cream—a rare treat since Charlotte’s diagnosis. My father, who’d been up to his elbows in sudsy water, had looked over at me and remarked apropos of nothing, “You and Paul are incredibly lucky.”

  “How’s that?” I said, drying off the pan he’d just handed me.

  “Well, Libby Lou, it’s one thing to truly like your spouse, and another to share that special spark. But to have both: that’s like the holy grail right there. Your mother and I had that. And now both of you do, too.”

  “Yes, we do,” I told him, smiling to myself. “We’re lucky.”

  And we were. Except as my eyes landed on Shiloh again, I suddenly felt almost as fearful as I had when we’d been zipping over New Jersey in a deathmobile. Because as handsome as my husband was as he lounged in his shorts and T-shirt and two-day scruff, I realized that the sparkling wine was not the liquid courage I’d been hoping for. In fact, I was afraid to suggest that we head to the bedroom, lest he confirm that our chemistry really had gone missing. Then there was the issue of his idea of a hot date, which was a hundred and eighty degrees away from what actually would have made me feel better.

  You’re making melanoma out of a mosquito bite, I told myself.

  But was I? Or was the doom and gloom I’d mistaken for a cancer recurrence actually my intuition trying to tell me that my marriage, like my brother’s, was in the midst of unraveling?

  SEVEN

  “Hey—I’m sorry about last night.”

 
I’d just started cooking dinner when Shiloh joined me in the kitchen. He’d returned from a bike ride and was still dressed in the ratty T-shirt and athletic shorts he’d worn out; his skin was coated in the thinnest sheen of sweat, and his cheeks were pink. At any other time I would have thought he looked edible. Now I was afraid to even let myself get the tiniest bit tingly, knowing that I’d only be setting myself up for disappointment.

  I glanced down at the pan I’d been using to sauté spinach before addressing him. “You can stop apologizing, you know. I’m not traumatized from the flight or anything.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t mean flying. I meant—you know.”

  I glanced over my shoulder to make sure the girls weren’t nearby. “The non-bonking?” I said, resisting the urge to throw in the word again. This time, we hadn’t even tried—just crawled into bed beside each other and quickly kissed goodnight.

  His face twisted up. “Yeah.”

  I’d already decided not to ask him if he wasn’t attracted to me anymore, but the question kept inching its way toward my lips. Stop it, I commanded myself. Do not make him feel worse than he already does.

  After a moment, he said, “I think that because things didn’t go well the last time we tried, I was feeling kind of . . . pressured.”

  “Whoa,” I said, holding up my spatula in protest. “I deliberately didn’t bring this up so you wouldn’t feel pressured.”

  “No, I get that,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean you did anything. It’s just . . . a guy thing, I guess.”

  This seemed like a cop-out answer to me. “We don’t have to have sex, you know,” I said quietly. I thought of the couple I’d spotted outside the restaurant where I’d had lunch with Paul. “But I have to ask—when was the last time you had to kiss me?”

  He frowned. “I kiss you all the time.”

  Technically, this was true. But I wanted . . .

  Well, I wanted us to go at it like we were the last two survivors of the apocalypse and it was up to us to repopulate the planet (never mind that given our ages, we were now statistically more likely to get hit by an asteroid than to have another child). But if I couldn’t have that, some super passionate kissing—the kind that’s so good that when you finally stop, your lips look like they’ve had a close encounter with a swarm of yellow jackets and your face is half-coated in saliva and you don’t even care—would be just the thing.