Don’t Make Me Turn This Life Around

by Pagán, Camille

  “I don’t want to argue,” I said. “I’m not upset about—you know. So we don’t have to talk about it again.”

  He looked at me like he was trying to figure out what to say. After a moment, he sighed and said, “Fine.”

  “What are you guys fighting about?” said Isa. She’d just wandered into the kitchen with a book in front of her face.

  “Sweetie, I’ve asked you a hundred times not to walk and read at the same time,” I said. “You’re going to trip and hurt yourself.”

  “Agreed, and your mother and I aren’t fighting,” said Shiloh. “We’re having a discussion. A private one.”

  “If it quacks like a duck . . . but yeah, okay,” said Charlotte, who’d appeared behind Isa. “Mom, I’m starving. When’s dinner?”

  “In ten,” I said. “Didn’t you have a protein bar an hour ago?”

  “Those things are disgusting,” she said, making a face.

  “Then you didn’t eat it?” I said with alarm.

  “Relax, Mom.”

  “Here we go again. ‘Let’s see your food log, Charlotte! Let’s check your sugar! Let’s watch another episode of the Charlotte show!’” said Isa, who was still behind her paperback.

  “Isa,” warned Shiloh.

  “You think I like this?” said Charlotte, glaring at her. When Isa didn’t respond, she knocked the book out of her hands.

  “Hey!” yelled Isa as the book hit the tile with a thud. “You just made me lose my place!”

  “That is enough,” I said, so sharply that I startled myself as much as I had the girls. “Your father and I were in the middle of discussing something.”

  “How you’re divorcing?” said Isa, bending down to grab her novel.

  She might as well have just kneed me in the gut. “Isabel Milagros Ross-Velasquez, what on earth would make you say something terrible like that?” I hissed.

  She stood and shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Shiloh’s eyes flashed with anger. “If you don’t know then don’t say it.”

  “You don’t have to hide it from us,” said Isa. “Everyone gets divorced nowadays. Like, look at Uncle Paul and Uncle Charlie.”

  “Excuse me?” I said, staring at her. “How did you know that?”

  Isa shrugged again and opened her book.

  “Toby told us they were probably going to when we were over there for dinner,” said Charlotte, peering into the cupboard.

  Now Isa piped up. “And probably means wait for it. Anyways, I just read, like, three books where the main characters’ parents divorce. It happens.” She looked back and forth at me and Shiloh.

  “Yes, it does,” I said. “But not to me and your father.”

  “Oh, I can tell,” said Isa.

  “That’s enough,” said Shiloh.

  “Let’s talk about something else, okay?” I said, eager to keep this from turning into a four-person fight.

  But Shiloh’s mouth was a taut line, and Isa, who was glaring at Charlotte like she’d just tossed her books in a bonfire, said nothing. Then Charlotte slammed the cupboard door closed and stormed off. And I stood there fighting back tears as I wondered if my daughters had already picked up on what I was just now opening my eyes to.

  You’ve never seen four people eat a meal faster than we scarfed down dinner. The twins were probably right about needing alone time, I thought as everyone scattered to different corners of the apartment. And maybe Shiloh and I did, too. After all, there was a good reason that the adage wasn’t “Being under the same roof makes the heart grow fonder.”

  Still—the thought of putting more distance between us gave me a terrible pang, because I couldn’t see how that could possibly be an improvement. Our ill-fated date aside, when was the last time we really connected? Not binge-watching British TV shows before bed together. Not folding laundry side by side as we discussed Isa’s preference for the fictional world and Charlotte’s annoyance with our monitoring her health. Real. Quality. Time.

  Blame my sex-starved state, but every time I tried to recall some point in recent history that we’d really enjoyed each other’s company, I wound up remembering our whirlwind romance in Vieques.

  After the one-two punch of my cancer diagnosis and Tom’s marriage-decimating confession, I’d intended to head to Mexico to live out my final days. But when my father told me that my mother had loved Vieques, I’d abruptly changed my plans. I met Shiloh on the flight to the island, and though I’d initially found his pithy humor and hands-off approach grating, his quick thinking had allowed him to safely land our plane after a run-in with a bird destroyed its engine. And minutes later, he talked me down from the panic attack I’d suffered after realizing that whether from cancer or a crash, I was about to exit life stage left. Before I knew it, we were spending time together in the way that only two naked people can.

  Though I’d decided to forgo treatment, Shiloh confessed that he’d had cancer himself in his twenties. It took some doing, but he eventually convinced me to give survival—and yes, love—another shot. Still, neither of us had expected our fling to go the distance. But once we were apart, it had been impossible to stay that way, and he’d moved from Puerto Rico to the East Coast. Despite being told I was infertile, I’d gotten pregnant with the girls; Shiloh and I married a few months before they were born. What had started out as the most disastrous time in my life soon became the most magical.

  Thinking about Vieques made me think of Milagros, too, which was infinitely more pleasant than wondering why my present relationship bore so little resemblance to its past. Milagros had been my landlord during the month I’d spent there, and in spite of our four-decade age difference, we’d hit it off. I’d only seen her a few times since then. But we’d stayed in close contact over the past thirteen years, and she’d become a dear friend. A mentor, even. As I’d learned after my mother died, the desire to be comforted by your parents never really went away, even when you had children yourself. But at least Milagros was still there when I, say, wasn’t sure what to do after I’d stuck my foot in my mouth with a neighbor. Or when I just wanted to chat.

  I was about to start scouring the pots and pans when it hit me that she was exactly who could pull me out of my doldrums. I abandoned the dishes, grabbed my phone, and went out to the patio to call her.

  She picked up right away. “Libby?” she said, half laughing my name. “So happy to hear from you.” We usually spoke every week or two, but I’d stopped calling as frequently since . . . well, around the time my dad died, to be honest, even if it hadn’t been intentional.

  “Hi, Milagros,” I said. And then I burst into tears.

  “Oh, mija. ¿Qué es?” she said, meaning, “What is it?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, still crying. “It’s just been a rough day and I needed to talk to someone.”

  “Don’t apologize—I’m glad you called me! I’ve got nothing but time,” she said, and although I knew she was trying to reassure me, hearing her say this made me cry even harder because that’s probably what my father, who’d been seventy-four when he’d passed, had thought, too. While Milagros was in great health for a woman in her eighties, time was arguably not on her side. “Now, what’s going on?”

  I took a deep breath and wiped my eyes. “I don’t even know,” I said, my voice quavering. “I went to the doctor the other day, and I thought I had cancer again. But I don’t. In fact, next month is my ten-year anniversary. And even though I know that’s the best possible news a person could wish for, I feel . . . well, not like myself,” I confessed, and even just saying this was like having a boulder lifted off my chest.

  “Oh Libby,” she said kindly. Some tropical bird cawed in the background, and I could just picture her sitting on her palm tree–canopied patio, which was right beyond the guesthouse in her backyard. As much as I liked my own patio, I would have given a pinkie toe to be there next to her, listening to the waves hit the shore and feeling like everything was right with the world. “You don’t have to feel go
od all the time, tú sabes.”

  “I know.” I glanced over my shoulder to make sure the double doors to the apartment were still closed. “But I don’t like feeling like this.”

  “Lo sé,” she soothed, but then I heard a man calling her in the background.

  “Who’s that?” I said.

  “My lover, Hector,” she said with obvious delight. “He came over to move furniture for me and ended up moving in. Life is never boring for a moment, mija.”

  I wanted to laugh and be happy for her—but hearing her call some man “lover” only reminded me of all the naked Twister I’d not been playing. If I was envious of an octogenarian’s love life, things were even worse than I’d thought.

  “Libby?” said Milagros. “You still there?”

  “I’m here,” I said, looking up at the sky. The sun had just begun to set; above me a pair of airplanes were heading in opposite directions, leaving white trails in their wakes.

  “How’s Shiloh?” said Milagros, who seemed to have read my mind.

  “Fine,” I sniffed. “Busy lately, but fine.”

  “You’re lucky to have a man who loves you. That’s more than I can say for at least five of my seven ex-husbands. Or maybe there were six—it’s a little fuzzy now. But if I know anything, it’s that you have yourself a winner.”

  I did; I really did. And wasn’t knowing that I’d married someone I truly loved, and who loved me, enough?

  “Hector, amor, un segundo,” she hollered. “Sorry, Libby,” she said. “I’m telling you, the man is insatiable!”

  I managed a laugh.

  “¿Y las niñas? When are you going to bring them to Vieques to see me?” she asked.

  Though our family visited Puerto Rico at least once a year, getting to Vieques was time-consuming and logistically complicated. So we’d only taken the girls there once, when they were two, and too young to remember Milagros. Shiloh and I had planned to return last summer but canceled after Charlotte’s diagnosis; everything had seemed so overwhelming at the time. We’d discussed going for spring break instead, but then my father had died.

  “I know we’re long overdue for a trip. But the girls are doing great,” I told Milagros. “Charlotte’s blood sugar has been under control, which is the most important thing. Granted, they’re fighting more than I’d like because they don’t have camp this summer. They don’t realize what a privilege it is to be bored.”

  Milagros cackled. “Kids never do! But if they’re bored, why don’t you bring them here for a week or so? Hector just made some updates to the guesthouse, and they didn’t take as long as we thought, so the month of August is open. It’s hot, tú sabes, but I can’t imagine New York will be any cooler. Celebrate being cancer free for ten years—my treat.”

  “That’s so nice of you, but I don’t think we can pull it off,” I said, even as I imagined lounging in the hammock outside her guesthouse. It wasn’t just the idea of taking a break that was so appealing; Vieques was where I’d pieced my life back together and found peace and clarity at a time when both had seemed impossible. And given the week—heck, given the month—there wasn’t a single thing that sounded better than sticking my toes in the water and feeling like everything in the world was going to work out just fine. “Shiloh has been working a ton.”

  “Then it’ll be even easier for him to ask for time off,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “You’re funny.”

  “Pero I’m also right. Come back to the place where you two started. And bring those gorgeous girls of yours so I can see them again before I croak.”

  She was kidding, but her words pierced me. What if the twins never really got to know the woman who’d mothered me all these years?

  “I miss you, Libby,” she added.

  Here came the waterworks again. “I miss you, too, Milagros,” I told her, wiping away a tear. “I’d love to come, but I don’t know if I can make it that soon. Let me talk to Shiloh and get back to you.”

  “That’s all I ask,” she said, and I could just see her grinning. “I’d say the door is open, but we’re booked solid from September through the second week of January.”

  I sniffed. “Noted.”

  “Of course, old Milly understands if you can’t visit. Either way, hang in there, okay, Libby?”

  “I’ll try, Milagros. Thanks for helping me feel better.”

  “Any time, mija, and I mean that.”

  I knew that she did. Which is why I was going to find a way to see her again—and soon.

  EIGHT

  After I finally dried my eyes, I went into the living room and pulled my Vieques photo album from the bookshelf before heading to our bedroom. Still fully dressed, I got under the duvet, then opened the album.

  I ran my finger along the edge of the first page. At the top, there was a photo of palm trees against a bright blue sky; I’d taken it shortly after arriving at the airport in San Juan. Just below that was a snapshot of the plane I flew to Vieques with Shiloh, who was barely visible in the background. Of course, at the time, I had no idea that the maddening if highly attractive stranger would eventually become my husband.

  On the next page, Shiloh and I were at our favorite restaurant in Vieques, the one with twinkle lights and the open-air bar that looked like a movie set. It was where we went on our first date, which ended with us fighting about why I wasn’t planning to get treatment—not that that had been enough to prevent us from finding our way right back to each other.

  And there I was, lying on a towel on the beach in my bathing suit and a wide-brimmed sun hat, smirking at Shiloh, who was taking my picture. I wanted to reach through the page and shake thirteen-years-ago me. Forget that I had no clue that just a few years later I would have traded a kidney for skin that supple and unlined. What I really didn’t realize was that what I’d thought was a low point was really one of the highest of my life.

  New tears sprang to my eyes, because I’d just realized how much I looked like my mother in that photo. Specifically, I looked like the photo of her that my father had sent me right before I decided to flee Chicago, where I’d lived with Tom, for Puerto Rico. They’d been on the beach in Vieques, and she had been pregnant with me and Paul; she had been so luminous and filled with joy that I knew I had to see that place for myself and had ditched my plans to head to Mexico. In spite of my tumultuous emotional state, I, too, looked luminous and joyful in the photo Shiloh had taken. The island was magical that way.

  I kept flipping and reminiscing until I reached the last page, which held a picture of me and Milagros standing in front of her pale pink guesthouse. I remembered how scared I was—of officially ending my marriage; of taking a chance on Shiloh, who was practically a stranger to me at the time; and yes, naturally, of dying. But none of that fear was evident on my face. Instead, I was wearing the smile of someone who knows she’s just made a lifelong friend. Beside me, Milagros was grinning like she had it all figured out. Which, of course, she did.

  I really missed her. She was already getting up there in years when we’d taken the photo, and now she was . . . eighty-three, I determined after doing the math in my head. The last time Shiloh and I had been to visit her, she’d been bounding around like a woman half her age, but that was five years ago. And if my décolletage was any indication, a lot could change in that amount of time.

  Shiloh stuck his head in the door. “Hey, I was going to join you on the patio, but you weren’t there. What are you up to?”

  “Just looking through old photos,” I said, hoping I didn’t look like I’d been crying. “I talked to Milagros for a little while.”

  “Oh yeah? How is she?”

  “Good . . . but old.” I’d already made up my mind but wanted to take the opportunity to gauge his mood before determining how I’d ask him about going. “She asked us to come stay at the guesthouse, so she can meet the girls before she, quote, croaks.”

  He laughed lightly from the doorway. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

/>   It always came to that, not that I said this to him. “We are overdue for a trip, though. We’ve been telling Charlotte and Isa that we’d take them back to Vieques for years now.”

  “It has been a while for us, too,” he said. When the girls were seven, Shiloh and I left them with Paul and Charlie for a week and flew to Puerto Rico for our first and only solo vacation. That time we’d gone to Vieques for a quick overnight trip. I thought we’d begin to visit more regularly after that, but in the following years, something had always seemed to come up. “What about the week between Christmas and New Year’s? I should be able to take it off if I give Kasey enough notice,” he said, referring to his supervisor.

  The holidays were only five months away. It might as well be a decade. “Milagros said the guesthouse is available in August, and it’s ours to use—her treat for my ten-year cancerversary,” I told him.

  “Next month?” he said, running his hand through his hair. “As in August, which starts next week?”

  “Yes,” I said in a tone that was bordering on defensive. There were a dozen different reasons we couldn’t make it work—last-minute tickets would be a fortune, Shiloh probably couldn’t get the time off, and so forth and so on. Not a single one of them mattered. Visiting Vieques the first time had allowed me to figure out what seemed like an impossible situation. Surely now—when nothing was actually wrong with me—I’d get my head screwed on straight within minutes of setting foot on the island.

  But I wasn’t the only one who needed transformation. If the past several weeks were any indication, Shiloh and I needed a serious dose of the island enchantment that brought us together in the first place. And while I wouldn’t describe my family as coming apart at the seams, spending a week away from the stressors of our everyday life might be just the thing to help remind us how lucky we were to have each other.