“I can so—I just need to adjust my insulin,” said Charlotte. She’d been examining the framed photos Milagros had displayed on her tiered television stand. I sent photos every Christmas, so we were in several of them, but seeing them now made me realize that holiday cards were a lousy substitute for time together. I would have to talk to Shiloh about how we could afford to make this summer trip an annual event. After all, he’d said he felt more like himself here. And I had to believe that soon I would, too.
“We’ve talked about this. Remember how shaky you were after LaToya’s?” I said, referring to the time she’d decided to sneak a jumbo-sized soda.
“I know how to manage my blood sugar now,” she said, throwing herself down on the end of one of Milagros’ two sofas.
“So what happened after dinner the other night?” said Isa.
Charlotte swiveled and gave her a look that could have sunburned Satan.
“Don’t blame me for your broken pancreas,” Isa volleyed back.
If she weren’t being so childish, I would have commended her for correctly identifying the root cause of Charlotte’s condition. “Isa, please,” I said, hoping to nip their bickering in the bud before it got worse. I glanced at Shiloh, who shook his head in frustration.
“Try to be more compassionate, okay?” he said.
“This is me being compassionate,” she retorted. “Otherwise, I would have said that I’m tired of the world revolving around Charlotte. Or at least my food revolving around her. Stop lumping me in the same category as her, Mom. I’m sick of it.”
“You guys,” said Shiloh wearily. “Knock it off.”
At this rate, we were going to need a vacation to recover from our vacation. I glanced back and forth between the three of them, silently pleading for everyone to act normal. We had so little time to spend with Milagros; I didn’t want her and Hector, who’d been watching us from the sofa, seeing us at our very worst.
“Charlotte!” said Milagros. I hadn’t realized she’d disappeared again until she reappeared in the doorway, holding two more glasses. “I’m sorry that I forgot you have to be extra careful about what you drink. Do you want to try this? It’s sparkling water with just a tiny splash of sugar-free lemonade. No sugar.”
I braced myself for Charlotte to say something else that would embarrass me, but she reached for the glass Milagros was holding out to her. “Thank you,” she mumbled. She took a sip and looked up at Milagros. “This is really good.”
“Bueno! I’ll make it anytime you want, so don’t be afraid to ask. Now Isa,” said Milagros, sitting beside her on the other sofa. “I made you one, too, but that doesn’t mean you have to have it. Would you like the first one with sugar, provided that’s okay with your parents?”
“Oh,” said Isa softly. “No, I’ll try the one Charlotte’s having.”
“I was hoping you’d say that, because it’s delicioso. But if you change your mind, you tell Milly, okay?”
“Thanks, Milagros,” said Isa, smiling shyly at her.
“Yes, thank you,” I said. I wasn’t sure how she’d just sucked the tension right out of the air, but the girls were contentedly sipping their drinks, and Shiloh had begun chatting with Hector in Spanish. Maybe Milagros could give me a few pointers later on.
“No need to thank me!” she protested. “Now, niñas,” she said to Charlotte and Isa, “it’s been years since I’ve seen you. Tell me everything.”
FIFTEEN
“Morning, sleepyhead.” Shiloh was standing next to the bed with a small ceramic mug of espresso. Birds were chirping just outside our window, and sun had begun to spill through the gaps in the wood blinds.
“I’m still dreaming, right?” I murmured as I pushed myself into a sitting position and accepted the mug from him. It had been years since I’d woken up on my own, without an alarm, and had my husband present me with fresh coffee before I’d even thrown the covers off. “Leave me here.”
“Not dreaming,” he said with a smile. His hair was wet, and he smelled ever so faintly like soap, which told me he’d just gotten out of the shower. “Happy cancerversary. How do you feel?”
“Good,” I said, because it was true for a change. The rest of the night before had been blessedly uneventful; to my relief and delight the girls had talked Milagros’ ear off over drinks; then the six of us had gone out to a nearby restaurant for dinner, during which no one had stared at the television (because there hadn’t been one, but all the same). I’d been so tired—and yes, relieved that the day had gone well—when we finally crawled between the sheets that I’d immediately fallen asleep, negating any worries about whether Shiloh would attempt to be amorous.
But even more than my relief over finally having a calm and uneventful evening, I was happy because today was the day: exactly ten years earlier, Dr. Malone’s predecessor had informed me that the war being waged inside of me had been won.
“Thank you for remembering,” I said, smiling back at him.
“No need to thank me,” he said, touching my arm gently. “Do you remember the doctor’s office?”
Of course I did—we’d jumped up and down, crying and kissing like we’d just won the jackpot (which I supposed we had). On the ride from Manhattan to New Jersey, where we lived at the time, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other; as soon as we paid the sitter and made sure the girls were still napping, we’d stripped down in the middle of the living room and gone at it in a way that still made me blush, even all these years later. That time, I hadn’t had to tell myself to feel alive or be grateful. I just was.
“That was one of the best days of my life,” I told Shiloh.
“Mine, too. But let’s make today rival it. I know we have the bay trip planned for tonight, but what else do you want to do?”
“Oh, gosh,” I said, because I hadn’t actually put much thought into it. “How about the black-sand beach if the weather’s good, and maybe lunch at El Chinchorro?” I said, referring to our favorite restaurant in Vieques.
“Sounds perfect,” he said, bending to kiss me softly.
My mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, and my eyes were still hazy with sleep; my hair, no doubt, was sticking up in every which direction. But I forgot about all that as Shiloh’s lips met mine.
“I love you,” I murmured.
“I love you, too,” he said. “So—”
“I was here first!”
“But I really have to go!”
The girls were on the other side of our door, bickering about who was going to use the bathroom.
“I’ll take care of it,” Shiloh said before I could spring out of bed. “Relax, go for a walk if you want. Today is for you.”
“Thank you,” I said again, feeling awash with appreciation. Who cared if we weren’t having sex? Okay—I did. But he was being so loving and thoughtful that it seemed to me I’d gotten it all wrong. We weren’t unraveling. We’d just needed a break. I’d needed a break. And now that I was getting one, our family was finally starting to gel again.
I threw some clothes on and slipped out the door before Isa or Charlotte could spot me and make me play judge in the ongoing trial that was their relationship. Instead of heading to the beach, though, I hoisted myself into the hammock strung between a pair of palm trees. The breeze was strong, and I could hear the waves slapping against the shore. Above me, a couple of blackbirds were twittering back and forth, and I’d just been wondering if they, like my daughters, were bickering but in a better-sounding language, when I suddenly remembered something I must have pushed into the distant corners of my memory.
All these years, I’d only ever focused on my initial response to being declared cancer free—especially since the oncologist I’d initially seen had predicted I’d have six months, if that, to live. But now it occurred to me that my euphoria had actually worn off pretty quickly after getting an all clear. In fact, after the heady rush of those first few days, I’d spent the next couple of months feeling . . . not unlike I’d been
feeling lately, actually.
Underwhelmed. Anxious. And so very, very tired.
At the time, I’d been able to chalk it up to having two very active toddlers and a new business to tend to. Moreover, I was sapped from undergoing treatment on and off for nearly two years. But in retrospect, it cut deeper than that. Surviving is inherently performative; not only do people want to see how you’ll react to this wonderful thing that’s just happened to you, they want to be a part of your good luck—enhance it, even, by reminding you that it could have turned out oh so differently. I could barely buy toilet paper without bumping into an acquaintance who felt the need to inquire about my health—and before I’d even managed to complete a sentence, proceed to tell me (insert sad face here) how their cousin’s best friend’s ex-girlfriend had recently had a recurrence or was in “a better place”—never mind that if this alleged place was so much better, they themselves would dispense with seat belts and health insurance.
I know how great I have it, I wanted to interrupt. Please don’t remind me that it could all go away in a second. I learned that earlier than any person should ever have to.
But they were hurting, too, so I smiled and wished their loved ones well . . . and walked away feeling like a little more of my hope had just been stolen from me.
Still, it wasn’t long before my blues gave way to blue skies and my old sunny outlook. And though I had seen a social worker a few times, I hadn’t done much of anything other than to just keep reminding myself of who I was—a mother, a wife, a survivor.
An optimist, just like my mother before me.
The hammock rocked gently as I stared at the sky, which was framed by palm trees. For a second, but only a second, I wondered what I would do if reminding myself wasn’t enough.
Just knowing that things would eventually be all right made everything feel more that way. And apparently my newfound lightness was contagious, because the girls got into their bathing suits and cover-ups without being asked or raising their voices at each other, while Shiloh whistled as he loaded a backpack with snacks and supplies.
“Should we tell them what today is?” Shiloh whispered after we parked the Jeep near the trailhead leading to the beach.
“Later,” I said, because I was anxious to preserve the morning’s good vibe. “I want to tell them but feel like that’s a longer discussion. Right now, let’s just have fun.”
A frown flitted across his face so quickly I wasn’t sure I hadn’t imagined it. “Okay,” he said. “Maybe at lunch.”
“Perfect,” I agreed. The girls had already begun down the trail, and their heads were bent in conversation. The fact that they still weren’t fighting confirmed my decision to wait. “Let’s get going.”
The half-mile trail to the beach was steep and muddy; some sections were so flooded that we had to step into the thick brush along the side of the trail. We’d managed to make it about two-thirds of the way down when I miscalculated and stepped into a giant puddle. I yanked my leg up, but my foot wouldn’t move. I pulled again, even harder this time, but it was no use.
“Ugh, Mom, I’m beginning to think you’re cursed,” said Isa, but she was looking at Charlotte. They did this sometimes—had an entire conversation with a single glance. I knew what they were up to because Paul and I had been doing the same thing all our lives. I was willing to bet whatever they were saying had something to do with their mother being a master at manifesting disaster.
“Your vote of confidence is much appreciated,” I said to Isa. “And no, I don’t need help, but thanks so much for asking.”
“Libs?” said Shiloh, who’d stopped beside me. “You okay?”
“Peachy,” I said, like I wasn’t slowly being swallowed by a flesh-eating puddle. I tried again, and when my foot still wouldn’t budge, I said, “Actually, can you give me a hand?”
“Of course,” he said, looping his arm through mine. As he tugged gently, the earth finally let go of me.
“Mary and Joseph,” I muttered. Because the top of my foot felt like it had just been skewered like a shish kebab and stuck on a flaming grill.
“You’re hurt,” said Shiloh, which was when I realized I was grimacing.
I quickly fixed my face. “Only a little,” I told him, but there was a lump between two of my toes that was growing from a pea to a grape to a genetically engineered cherry tomato before my very eyes.
He whistled. “That doesn’t look great, cutie. Think you broke something?”
As I stepped gingerly on a less muddy part of the trail, pain shot from between my toes straight up my ankle. “Just pulled a tendon,” I said through gritted teeth. “Or maybe broke a blood vessel.”
His forehead was etched with concern. “We can head back.”
“No,” I said quickly. Things had just started getting better. There was no way that I was going to let a little tiny thing like childbirth-esque pain ruin our adventure. “I’ll be fine,” I said, trying not to visibly limp as I started on the path again.
“Listen, we really can come back another time. It’s not a big deal,” he said, giving me a sympathetic smile.
“Another day won’t be my cancerversary,” I said in a low voice, because I knew that was the one thing that would put an end to the discussion. I took another step to show him I meant it. “Let’s go see this mystical beach.”
The beach was set behind a red, rocky bluff, and the dense sand, which stretched for at least half a mile to our right, was the color of charcoal. It was beautiful to the point of being almost otherworldly.
The girls had been up ahead of me and Shiloh, and now they were running in the surf, squealing with glee. Tears sprang to my eyes, and not because of my foot. Maybe all this time, I hadn’t been looking for my own happiness at all, but for my daughters’. No wonder I’d been struggling so much—I’d been thinking about myself instead of what was most important.
“They love it,” I said to Shiloh. “Aren’t you glad we didn’t head back?”
He laughed. “You’re incredibly stubborn sometimes.”
“You’re welcome,” I quipped.
Most of Vieques’ beaches were speckled with pastel shells, but this one was dotted with tiny rocks. Shiloh squatted to examine a clay-colored stone. “You know, I haven’t been here since I was young,” he said, chucking the stone into the ocean.
“You’re still young,” I said, looking at his muscled back. “Or at least, you’re young-passing.”
“Thanks, I think?” he said with a laugh. He stood and put his arms around me. “So what does young-passing get me?”
I laughed with surprise. “Who wants to know?”
“Your husband,” he said in a saucy voice.
Just for a second I had a pang, because it had occurred to me that if we were actually younger and here without children, we might have ducked into a secluded area along the path and acted on our more primal urges. But a moment of spontaneous connection was nothing to scoff at, I reminded myself.
Then his shorts started to vibrate.
“Leave it,” I murmured, pulling him closer.
“If I leave it, it’s going to keep buzzing,” he said, already reaching into his pocket.
The screen was lit up, but he silenced the call before I could see whose name was on the display, then switched his setting to “Do Not Disturb.” He tried to smile again as he slipped the phone back into his pocket, but it was as authentic as a Rolex someone was selling out of their trench coat.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“No one,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”
I immediately began rationalizing. He had his arms around me again, and we weren’t in the habit of keeping secrets from each other. Maybe he had a surprise planned. After all, it was my cancerversary!
But it was too late; my buoyant bubble had already burst. Paul had probably told Charlie all those text messages he’d gotten were from no one, too. I felt queasy. I’d never once worried about Shiloh cheating on me—he was as loyal as
they came. But as Paul had reminded me, people did change.
And sometimes their partners were the reason.
Before I could press him further, he let me go and shielded his eyes with his hands. “Hey, I don’t see the girls anymore. I think I should go try to catch up with them before they get too far.”
“Sure,” I said. My voice warbled ever so slightly, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“Should be back in five—hold tight,” he said, pecking me on the lips.
“Will do,” I said. Now my foot wasn’t the only thing aching as I watched him jog down the beach.
So much for turning things around.
SIXTEEN
When Shiloh returned with the girls a short while later, he acted as though nothing was amiss. In fact, he was so casual as he took photos of Charlotte and Isa building a sandcastle that I almost convinced myself I’d imagined the whole thing.
Almost.
I was still trying to come up with plausible explanations for his secrecy when tiny bugs began jumping from the sand onto our feet and ankles. One minute the girls were digging a moat; the next, Isa was jumping into it and screaming bloody murder while Charlotte ran in circles slapping at her skin.
Shiloh, who was already scratching his calf, glanced up at me. “And . . . scene.”
“I’m ready,” I said. The beach was beautiful, but between Shiloh’s phone call and my throbbing foot, which was now a bunch of bugs’ lunches, I was ready to get out of there. Anyway, the girls were already running toward the trailhead.
The trail was steep, and it hurt to climb it, which made it difficult to hold a conversation. “You okay?” Shiloh kept asking me.
I had half a mind to yell back, “What do you think?” But yesterday’s Momzilla moment was still fresh in my mind, so I told him I was hanging in there—because after all, wasn’t I?
“Lunch will be good,” he said as we piled into the Jeep. “We ready for some food?” he called over his shoulder to the girls.
Don’t Make Me Turn This Life Around Page 10