When I looked up from the water, hoping to paddle over to Shiloh and tell him what I’d just been reminiscing about, I realized he was already several hundred feet away, and traveling fast.
Wait, where was he going?
I looked back and forth between him and the girls. If I tried to catch him, I’d leave Isa and Charlotte behind, and our guide was still near the shore, getting the final few tourists into the water. As I watched the glowing light on the front of Shiloh’s kayak grow fainter in the distance, it occurred to me that I didn’t want to have to tell him to spend time with us. Hadn’t he said he wanted to make this a special day?
But that was before he’d gotten the phone call on the beach. I didn’t know what or why or how, but that call had changed something.
And honestly, I was a little afraid to find out what.
The girls were splashing each other, but as far as I could tell, they were enjoying themselves for a change rather than attempting to mortally wound one another. So I leaned all the way back in my kayak and looked up. The last time I’d been here, the sky had been a carpet of stars. Now the moon was half-full, and the clouds were dark and heavy, so I could only see a few pinpricks of light. I stared at the ones I could see, wondering if my parents were up there somewhere.
I wasn’t sure when, but I’d begun to cry. And I don’t mean a few tears here and there—which was starting to be an everyday event for me, even if I didn’t like to dwell on that. No, this was the chest-heaving, twisted-up ugly face kind of cry. The only saving grace was that I was so busy gulping for air that I wasn’t actually making any noise, so I couldn’t freak out the twins or anyone else within earshot. I wasn’t even crying because Shiloh had abandoned me in the middle of what was supposed to be a rousing rendition of our greatest hit.
I just really missed my father.
My mother was always with me—not so much a voice in my head telling me which battle to choose and how to fight it, but rather a soft hand on my back, subtly guiding me in the right direction. The last time I’d been at the bay, I’d felt her looking down on me and sending her love. And I guess deep down I’d expected that, once I was out here again, my father would make the same sort of appearance. After all, I’d waited six whole months for some sign he’d made it to the other side, wherever that was.
Now I felt . . . a whole lot of nothing. In fact, it was not unlike the doctor’s office: I’d been expecting a thunderbolt but had barely registered a slight breeze.
“Mom? What are you looking at?” said Charlotte. The girls had just paddled up beside my kayak.
I swallowed hard and pushed myself into a seated position. Thank goodness it was too dark for them to tell I’d been sobbing my face off. “I was trying to see the stars, but it’s too cloudy for that.”
“Yeah,” she said, glancing overhead. “It’s still nice here, though.”
“I’m really glad you think so.”
“Thank you for bringing us,” said Isa. “This is really nice.”
“It really is,” I agreed, trying not to think about how I wished I were having this conversation with Shiloh, too. After all, my mother would have given anything to have had this experience with me and Paul. Having Isa and Charlotte with me was enough. “I’m so glad you two are here,” I said.
“Me, too,” said Isa softly.
I blinked several times, trying to keep my tears at bay. So much had been riding on this trip—and so far it had been a bust. But at least one day Charlotte and Isa might look back on the tour and feel the same sort of reverence I felt about this place.
The guide was in the middle of the bay, calling for everyone to join him, so I motioned for the girls to follow me. Together we cut through the water, our paddles softly slapping the surface and sending sparkling ripples out to the sea.
In the moonlight, I saw that Shiloh was making his way back.
“Hey,” he said when he reached us. “I just followed this huge school of fish around the bay. They were right near the surface, so some of them were making the water glow—it was incredible. I wish you’d seen it.”
“No kidding,” I said. But inside, I was thinking: Fish? Fish?! Bad enough that we would not be swimming side by side in the water tonight—or if our tour guide was to be believed, ever again. Now Shiloh was trying to explain his fifteen-minute absence as a nature excursion? There wasn’t a lens of gratitude from here to Mongolia that was going to make the truth any more palatable: this truly wasn’t about sex.
Because Shiloh and I?
We had far bigger fish to fry.
EIGHTEEN
“Well? What did you think?” asked Shiloh.
The tour guide had just returned us to the parking lot, and we’d toweled off and piled back into our Jeep. It was after eleven p.m. already, and although I was still raw about Shiloh’s disappearing act—particularly since the rest of the tour had required us to follow the guide, who yapped like he’d never heard a lovelier sound than his own voice—I was so exhausted that I’d resolved to deal with it tomorrow.
“It was good,” I said, fastening my seat belt.
“Are you disappointed that it was different from last time?” he said, glancing at me briefly from the driver’s seat.
Of course I was; that he didn’t know this was yet another reminder of how out of sync we were. “Weren’t you? Actually, never mind,” I said as I remembered that I’d already decided against airing my grievances. “It doesn’t matter.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he said in a low voice. The girls, who looked as tired as I felt, were silent in the backseat.
“It doesn’t mean anything except that it’s over now, so there’s really no reason to discuss it.”
I could just barely make out the taut line of his jaw in the moonlight. “Libby, would you just tell me what you’re thinking for a change?”
“For a change?” I said, jerking my head back. “I tell you what I think all the time. I don’t even know what you mean right now.”
“Don’t fight,” said Isa groggily.
This was rich from someone who practiced mixed martial arts on her sister at least twice a day. “We’re not fighting, but you’re right, Isa. This is a discussion best had another time.”
“Fine.” Shiloh sounded irritated. Well, I was, too. How could I keep my mood afloat when my husband kept reminding me that he was drifting away from me?
I turned away from him to stare out the window. “We’re all beat. Let’s just get back and get some sleep.”
Neither of us said anything more the rest of the drive, though I kept stealing glances to see if Shiloh’s expression softened. It didn’t—nor did he ease up on his death grip on the steering wheel. So now we’re both angry, I thought as we pulled into Milagros’ gravel drive. It was a fitting cherry to top the poop pie that was my cancerversary.
“Charlotte, check your sugar and let me know your numbers. Then both of you brush your teeth and hop in bed, okay?” I told the twins as I unlocked the guesthouse. Behind us, Milagros’ place was dark, save a dim light coming from her bedroom. For all I knew, Hector was up reading, but the thought that Milagros might be getting lucky made me feel even bluer than I already was, which was saying a lot. I blinked back fresh tears as I remembered what had happened after the last time Shiloh and I had been to the bay. We hadn’t hit our stride at that point, so we exchanged awkward goodbyes—but then he’d driven back to the guesthouse and kissed me with ferocity before making love to me in all the ways that my gay husband had been incapable of. Though I wasn’t aware of it at the time, it was the point at which my life finally began to turn around.
I didn’t need a crystal ball to know that would not be happening again tonight.
Shiloh was standing at the counter now, drinking one of the soft drinks Milagros had put in the fridge for us. “Libby,” he said.
When you’ve been married to someone long enough, a single word can contain a soliloquy. He wanted to know if we were okay.
�
�Shiloh,” I said, looking pointedly at the bathroom, where the girls were getting ready, to make sure he understood that this really, really wasn’t the time to talk.
His eyes washed over me. “I guess we should go to bed,” he said after a moment.
I nodded and headed to the bedroom. Good, I thought. I hated that I was glad the day was nearly over—but I was. I’d never been big on my own birthday, and Christmas had been anticlimactic since my mother had gotten sick (though I was sure to throw on my elf hat and a big, eggnog-guzzling grin every year, so my girls didn’t inherit my secret holiday humbug). Yet clearly, I had given my cancerversary—and really, the entire vacation—too much significance. No wonder I felt like a child who’d expected Santa to gift her a real live pony, only to find a lousy toy horse under the tree.
After I’d changed into my nightgown, I returned to the sunroom to tuck the girls in. Isa was already snoring softly, and Charlotte, who was lying on her stomach, had an arm slung over Isa’s back, just like she used to do when they were babies. As I kissed the top of their heads, it occurred to me that they had barely argued all day. Maybe they’d leave this vacation on better terms than they’d started. Someone had to.
Shiloh was in bed when I let myself into the bedroom. “Sorry,” he said quietly as I slipped beneath the covers and pulled them up to my chin.
“For what,” I said, but as soon as I heard how wooden I sounded, I felt terrible. Were we acquaintances running into each other at a coffee shop, or two people who’d vowed to love each other through good times and bad, so help us God? “No, I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “Today has been tough.”
“Sorry,” he said again. “I knew we couldn’t swim in the bay anymore, but I didn’t think to mention it to you.”
“Telling me wouldn’t have changed anything,” I said, blinking up into the darkness.
“I know, but still. And I’m sorry about taking the kayak so far from you guys. I didn’t realize how long I’d been gone, or that we wouldn’t have another chance to go off on our own without the rest of the group.”
“It’s fine.” For a brief moment I considered asking him about the phone call. Then I realized I didn’t want to know. Not tonight. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not try for a big talk when we’re both tired and cranky.”
I waited for him to tell me it was okay, or at least say goodnight. But the next minute passed in silence, then the next, and I realized that even though I was right beside him, I was alone—again.
The worst part was, I didn’t even know how we’d gotten here. Everything I’d tried to do to feel like myself had been a spectacular failure. But the past twenty-four hours had made me realize that this just wasn’t all on me. It took two to talk turkey, as my father, who’d been famous for mangling aphorisms, had liked to say. Something was amiss with Shiloh, too.
I squeezed my eyes shut. What if that “something” was that he’d fallen out of love with me? As Paul had reminded me, it happened.
It happened all the time.
“Hey,” he said, reaching for my hand. “Can we start over tomorrow?”
I opened my eyes. The alarm clock on my nightstand read 12:02; it was already tomorrow. I opted against mentioning that we’d already missed our shot, lest that turn into another conversation I didn’t want to have.
“Okay. I love you.” And I did. Wasn’t that what was most important?
“I love you, too,” he said, leaning over to kiss me. But his lips were on mine so briefly that I almost wondered if I’d imagined it. Then he rolled over to face the wall.
My husband’s back was barely visible through the bit of light streaming in through the shutters. I stared at it for a very long time, trying to convince myself that this was all unfolding exactly as it was supposed to. As I’d learned the first time I’d been in Vieques, sometimes you have to hit rock bottom before you can bounce back to where you’re supposed to be.
But as I finally closed my eyes for the night, I had a terrifying thought.
What if this wasn’t rock bottom at all, but rather the very beginning of our fall?
I was dreaming. Shiloh and I were at Tom’s apartment in Chicago, and Charlie was sitting at the end of the dining room table. “Hey, Libby,” he said when he saw me. “You should probably know that Tom’s the friend who took me to Fire Island. He’s why Paul and I are divorcing.”
“You can’t do that,” I said, turning to Tom. “You already broke up our marriage. Don’t break up my brother’s.”
“Sure, I can,” said Tom. “You of all people should know that happy marriages never stay that way. That’s life, Libby.”
But now Shiloh’s voice was pulling me back to reality. “Libby, wake up.”
Good, I thought, only semiconscious. I don’t want to have this dream, anyway.
“Libby.”
“Hmm? What is it?” I must have been even more upset than I’d realized if my subconscious was sending my ex-husband to inform me that a happy long-term marriage was an oxymoron. But I was mostly alert now, though I felt like my head was filled with wet sand.
I pushed myself into a seated position and glanced at the clock. Four in the morning! “Is Charlotte okay?” I said, already scrambling out of bed because if Shiloh was waking me at this hour, it had to mean she was in trouble.
“She’s fine,” he said, but I realized then that he was dressed in a T-shirt and shorts and looked like he’d been awake for more than a few minutes.
“What is it?” I said, wondering if he was so upset about our fight that he’d been unable to sleep.
Just then the room, which was dimly lit by the lamp, became blindingly bright for a split second. A moment later, a crack of thunder rang out and I jumped.
“That’s what woke me up,” said Shiloh. “I’m actually surprised you slept as long as you did, and that the girls aren’t in bed with us right now. We’re in for a bad storm.”
I was about to ask him how bad when it hit me that he’d never been one for hyperbole. In fact, he was probably downplaying the severity of whatever was headed our way.
He rubbed his forehead as he looked at his phone. “This weather pattern’s been upgraded to a tropical storm again,” he said, answering my unspoken question. “And . . .” He was staring at me like he wasn’t sure he should continue.
“What is it?” I pressed.
He grimaced. “There’s a hurricane watch in effect.”
He might as well have injected espresso directly into my bloodstream. “Hurricane? Why aren’t there any alarms going off?”
“I don’t know—I guess it’s possible the alarm system isn’t working. The storm was headed east, but from what I can gather it looks like it was in the middle of the Atlantic when it boomeranged back to us. Storms do that sometimes.”
“How far out is it?” I said, sounding every bit as panicked as I was. I couldn’t hear rain yet, but the wind was picking up, and the waves slapping against the shore could have been just outside our window.
“A couple hours at most,” he said. “What do you think we should do?”
Should? I had no idea. But what I wanted to do was call my father. Whether it was dealing with a flooded basement or trying to figure out why our car wouldn’t start, he always had an answer, or at least an idea as to how to find one. My throat constricted, and I had to swallow hard before responding. “I think we should ask Milagros. I hate to wake her at this hour, but she’s lived through this more than a few times. I feel like we should find out what she has to say.”
I wondered how much of the stress on his face was weather related and how much was the aftereffect of the conversation we’d had, oh, four hours earlier. “Good call,” he said after a moment. “Let’s go.”
The girls were still fast asleep, so after I threw on some clothes, I scribbled a quick note on a notepad and left it under Charlotte’s phone. The wind was bending the palm trees as we ran through the patio to Milagros’, sending images of Hurricane Maria flashing through my
mind. Were we about to live through that? Would we even be able to? More than three thousand Puerto Ricans had died as a result of the storm. I wanted to tell myself I was overreacting—but I’d just spent several days witnessing the aftermath of this exact scenario.
What fresh hell had I dragged my family into?
“Eh? Libby, is that you?” said Milagros when she came to the door. She was wearing a nightgown and fluffy slippers, but she didn’t look like she’d been asleep.
“I’m so sorry to pull you out of bed at this hour,” I said.
“You didn’t,” she said, ushering us inside. “Now that I’m old, I can’t sleep more than a couple hours—I’m up by four most days. So Hector and I were finding ways to pass the time.”
Hector, clad in a silk robe, appeared behind her. His cheeks, like Milagros’, were flushed, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on his brow.
They didn’t look embarrassed, so I wasn’t sure why I was. But at least I wasn’t envious for a change.
“¿Qué pasó?” said Hector, slipping his hand around Milagros’ waist.
“Viene una tormenta tropical,” said Shiloh—there’s a tropical storm coming.
“And a hurricane watch is in effect,” I added.
Milagros’ smile evaporated, and she shook her head. “I used to like a good storm. Pero ya no. Maria ruined them for me.”
I winced. “I’m sorry, Milagros. We were wondering what you think we should do. Do you think it’s safe to stay here?”
“Safe? There’s no such thing,” she scoffed. “We’re on the water, claro, but so is everyone else on this island.”
My mind was racing. We couldn’t evacuate if we wanted to—there was no plane or boat that was going to go head-to-head with a tropical storm. But what if Milagros’ house flooded? What would we do if Charlotte’s blood sugar tanked and we needed to get to the hospital?
Before Milagros could answer, the porch lights, along with the rest of the house, went dark.
Don’t Make Me Turn This Life Around Page 12