“Oh, Isa,” I said, reaching out to take her hand. “That must have been frightening for both of you. I wish I’d been there for you.”
“You would have told me not to freak out,” she said.
I winced. “I might have, yes. But listen, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, especially since Vieques. I’ve always been an optimist—you guys probably know that—but since your grandpa died, I’ve been really struggling.”
“You?” said Charlotte, scrunching up her nose. “Yeah, right.”
“No, I’m serious,” I said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more open about it. I should have told all three of you I was struggling, but instead of saying that, I doubled down on being positive, to the point where it was more harmful than helpful. It was the wrong way to handle my feelings, and it backfired.”
“Mommy, it’s okay,” said Charlotte, putting her hand on my shoulder.
I smiled. She’d been calling me that since we’d gotten back. It probably wouldn’t last, but I liked it. “I appreciate that, love. But if you guys feel like I’m being too rah-rah, just know that you can tell me.”
The girls glanced at each other. Then they looked back at me.
“Okay,” said Isa.
“Deal,” said Charlotte.
“Thanks, you two,” I said. I looked at Charlotte again. “I’ll get in touch with Dr. Ornstein tomorrow to make an appointment, and we’ll take it from there. Sound good?”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
I smiled at them both. “That’s what I’m here for.”
“How are you feeling about work?” Shiloh asked that evening. We were on our patio, and the neighbor’s mosquito zapper was buzzing; someone a few doors down was blasting eighties rock. I missed Puerto Rico, but in a strange way I was content to listen to the sounds of home, too.
I took a sip of my sparkling water before looking at him. “What makes you ask?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. It was just that you hadn’t mentioned it once while we were traveling.”
Even a week earlier, I would have deflected his remark by saying something about how I’d had bigger things on my mind, or how the whole point of vacation was not to think about work. And for a second I worried about overstating my ambivalence, especially given the “verbal diarrhea” Paul had accused me of having. But then I remembered what Milagros had said about repression and decided that I’d need to give myself the time and space to calibrate—even if that involved occasionally sticking my foot in my mouth.
So I said to Shiloh, “I need to make some changes. I’ve lost my enthusiasm for the work, and it’s not doing me or the foundation any favors. The trouble is, I’m not sure what to do. Every day has been feeling the same, but Rupi’s big idea about creating a camp seems impossible.”
“Lots of things seem impossible until you do them,” said Shiloh. “The real question: Do you want to do it?”
I took a deep breath. “That’s the tricky part—I’m not sure.”
“Hmm,” he said. He took a drink of his soda, then set it on the ground and looked at me. “There’s no wrong decision, you know. Anything you choose can be okay if you commit to making the most of it. If you had to decide right now about the camp, what would you do?”
I pressed my lids shut, trying to envision a camp. It took a few seconds before I could see it, but when it surfaced in my mind, it was clear and bright. There was a wood sign over a dirt road. A set of cabins. A lake and a dock and loads of happy kids.
And two of those kids were Charlotte and Isa.
My eyes flew open. “What if it wasn’t just for kids who lost a parent to cancer?”
“What do you mean?” said Shiloh.
“Well, what if we had different weeks for different kinds of kids, and at least one of those weeks was for kids with diabetes and their siblings? You know how we didn’t send the girls to camp this year because we were worried? We could have nurses on staff, more than usual. A doctor or two, and all the meals could be the kind of food that won’t cause problems. We’d set it up so that it was as normal as possible, but with all the help that was necessary in case anything went wrong.”
“Huh,” he said, looking impressed.
Then it hit me. “That’s not at all on point for the foundation’s mission,” I said quietly.
Shiloh laughed lightly. “Libby, who says you can’t change?”
“Our entire branding is centered around children and cancer,” I explained. “We can’t just abandon that.”
“Right . . . but you’re steering the ship. What would your mom have thought about branching out?”
I answered without even thinking about it. “She would have told me to go for it.”
He grinned. “Exactly.”
“But there’s a lot to consider,” I said.
“Sure—it’s a huge project. But I can tell by the light in your eyes that you’re excited about it. And you have a great team, Libby. You wouldn’t have to do it on your own.”
I felt a smile form on my lips. I guess I was excited. “I’m not sure what Rupi will say,” I told him.
“You won’t know until you ask her. But she’s ambitious and she’s already told you she’s up for a challenge. I bet she’ll be thrilled.”
“True. Still, it would be a lot of work, and the summers would be nuts. I wouldn’t be able to be there for the girls the way I want to. They need me.”
“Libby,” he said gently. “The girls do need you—they always will. They’re getting older, though. I think it’ll be okay for you to put more into your work, provided it’s the kind of ‘more’ you’re excited about.”
I blinked hard, suddenly overcome by the thought of the two of them, running out of their elementary school and across the playground with their arms flung wide open to me at the end of the day. That was our ritual: They ran, I scooped them up in one big hug, and then we walked home hand in hand. When we got to our apartment, they’d perch at the table while I made them a snack, which they would then devour even as they talked over each other, mouths full, in an attempt to tell me about their days. Which had always been the best part of my day.
But things were changing; now they needed me in a different way. And instead of a cheerleader or watchman, they needed someone who would listen to them and be honest with them, even when the truth wasn’t pretty or palatable. They needed less hovering and more . . .
Well, more letting go.
“You’re right,” I told him.
Then I looked up. Above us, only the thinnest sliver of moon hung in the sky. After a few seconds my eyes adjusted, and the stars began to surface. They were fainter than they’d been in Puerto Rico, but I could make out a few of the constellations that Shiloh, who was something of an astronomy buff, had taught me. Though I couldn’t find Lyra, I easily located Aquila and Hercules. I’d just spotted Sagittarius, which made me smile—I wasn’t really into astrology, but I knew my father was a Sagittarius—when a shooting star shot clear through it.
The star wasn’t really a star; it was a meteor flaming out in the atmosphere. Though you could spend a whole evening stargazing without seeing one, they weren’t truly rare.
But my father had always said that everything was only ever what you made of it. And I knew what I’d just made of that shooting star.
“Did you see that?” asked Shiloh.
“Sure did,” I said, smiling up at the sky. “Call me crazy, but I’m going to take that as a sign that I’m on the right path.”
THIRTY-TWO
The following morning, I decided to walk the mile and a half to work instead of taking the F line two stops north as I usually did. I wanted a chance to gather my thoughts about the camp, and to consider whether there were other ways to bring excitement back to my job—and if not, whether it was time to hand over the reins to someone else. Because I knew the camp, however invigorating an idea, wasn’t going to be a silver bullet. It would not change the monotony of having to open and answer all those emails. It would not les
sen the immense workload that I faced every single day.
But as I admired the brownstones I passed, the flower boxes hanging from their windows, and the fruit stands at the end of the street, I didn’t feel overwhelmed at what I was returning to. Because I had more agency than I’d given myself credit for, and maybe finally, the mental space to do something with that agency. I didn’t have to do it all on my own. Not anymore.
“Good morning,” I announced as I walked into the office.
“Libby, hi!” said Rupi, looking up from her computer. “How was your trip?”
“Oh my gosh, where to even start,” I said, making my way toward her desk. “I got stung by a jellyfish, stuck in a mud puddle, then stranded without electricity in Vieques during a tropical storm. My dear friend had a heart attack, and Charlotte’s insulin started to break down.”
“That sounds . . .” She cringed. “Horrible, actually.”
I laughed. “It was the worst. But believe me when I say that in the strangest way, it turned out to be what I needed. Hey—do you have a few minutes to talk?”
“Of course!” she said. “Here, or in your office?”
I looked around, and it occurred to me that it was okay if Kareem or Lauren, or anyone else for that matter, overheard our conversation. “Here is great,” I told her, pulling up a chair. “So . . . I thought a lot about what you said about the camp.”
She leaned forward, eyes wide with excitement. “I’m so glad. What do you think?”
“Well, first of all, I owe you an apology. I’ve been struggling to maintain excitement at work, and I glossed over that because I thought I had to lead by example.”
“That’s okay, Libby,” said Rupi kindly. “You’re our leader, sure. But you’re a human, too. I think you forget that sometimes.”
“You’re right, and I appreciate that more than you know,” I said, smiling at her. “With that in mind, I’m open to exploring the possibility of the camp. I think it’ll take four to six months to research, and if we decide to go forward, about two to three years to fund it and get it up and running. But here’s the catch.”
“I’m listening,” she said, leaning in even closer.
“I don’t want it to just be for kids who’ve lost a parent to cancer. I want to have some weeks designated for kids who are differently abled or who have medical conditions like diabetes—and I want their siblings to be able to join them. Maybe even their close friends. I haven’t figured it all out yet,” I said. “But I’m hoping you can help me with that.”
Rupi’s eyes were saucers. “Whoa. Really?”
I gave her a pained smile. “Terrible idea?”
She erupted into laughter. “How did you go from glossing over things to assuming the worst?”
I had to laugh, too. “I’m still figuring this all out. Bear with me.”
“Happy to. And to answer your question, it’s not a bad idea at all. In fact, I think it’s pretty darn amazing. Is it going to take a ton of work? Absolutely. But that’s not a reason not to do it. And we’re going to have to get buy-in from the rest of the team, though something tells me that won’t be hard to do.”
I beamed at her. “I was hoping you would say that. But I have to run one more thing by you.” I was right outside the foundation office that morning when I realized that there was a way for me to lighten my workload—and the minute I thought of it, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t earlier.
“Okay,” she said, nodding.
“I’d like to make you codirector, effective immediately. We’ll need to bring someone else on board to handle some of your current tasks—and mine,” I said. “There are parts of my job that are sapping my joy, and I’m sure you feel the same. I’d like to bring in someone new to help, so that you and I can focus on bigger initiatives. I’ve been so focused on keeping our overhead low that I didn’t realize how short-staffed we are. It’s time to grow. Especially if we want to make this camp happen.”
Her mouth hung open. “Really? You’re going to make me codirector?”
“Absolutely. If you want it, of course,” I said, but she was already jumping up to hug me.
“I hope this isn’t too unprofessional,” she said, still squeezing me.
I hugged her back. “Not in this office, it’s not. Congratulations—and thank you.”
“For what?”
I smiled. “For keeping me from coasting.”
Shiloh wasn’t due in to work until Tuesday, so he told me he’d handle dinner. But when I got home, the kitchen was empty. He wasn’t in the family room or dining room, either. I went to the bedroom to change, figuring I’d text him in a few minutes to find out where he was.
I’d just started to pull my shirt off when I realized he was on the floor beside our bed.
His shoulders were shaking, and for a split second I thought maybe he was laughing.
Then I realized he was weeping. I’d seen him cry plenty of times, but I’d never seen him weep before.
“Sweetie,” I said, sitting down beside him.
He startled, then wiped his eyes on his forearm. “I’m sorry,” he said in a choked voice.
“Don’t be,” I said, wrapping my arms around him. I wanted to assure both of us it was nothing, but I knew he was supposed to get his test results back today. I swallowed the lump in my throat. “What’s going on?”
His eyes were red and watery as he glanced at me. “I just needed a moment.”
“Take all the moments you need,” I said.
He looked at me again. Then his face cracked open. “It’s a swollen lymph node.”
I pulled back to look at him. “That’s good news, right? Why are you crying?”
“There was some sort of abnormal cell activity in the node.”
I couldn’t breathe. Because I knew exactly what caused abnormal cell activity.
Cancer.
That’s what.
“Oh honey,” I said quietly, wrapping him in my arms. “I’m sorry.”
“The doctor said it’s not necessarily malignant,” he said. His voice was raw. “I have to have the lymph node removed and have a full-body CT scan.”
Inhale, Libby. Now exhale. And again. “Okay,” I said slowly. “When will that happen?”
“Next month. That’s the soonest they can get me in. My doctor said to try not to jump to any conclusions.”
“Right,” I said, but in my mind, I was jumping all over the darn place. Chemo, radiation, recovery, repeat. He would have to stop flying for at least a year, and depending on the prognosis, might be forced into early retirement. Basically, everything Shiloh and I had spent the last thirteen years creating could come to a grinding halt—and that was if all went well. As Dr. Malone had once explained in more eloquent terms, a second cancer diagnosis was often particularly dire, because it meant those damn cells were determined to colonize.
But then I looked at Shiloh—the fine lines around his eyes, which crinkled when he smiled, the freckle above his lip, his salt-and-pepper curls. “I love you,” I told him. “I’m here for you, no matter what happens. We’ll get through this.”
He buried his face in my hair. “I don’t want to die,” he said, crying softly. “I don’t want to leave you here all by yourself to raise the girls without me. I want us to grow old together, Libby. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. I’m not ready for that to end.”
I wasn’t, either, and the thought of losing him filled me with sorrow. “Me neither,” I admitted. “That would be awful. But we’re going to play this as it lays, right? And the one thing I can tell you is that as long as I’m alive, I’ll be here for you.”
Because hadn’t that been the commitment we’d made before God, man, and a whole bunch of random people walking down the beach where we’d gotten married? The good, the bad, the unbearable.
But it was bearable when there was another person at your side.
His choking sobs had slowed to a quiet cry, and after a moment, his breath normalized. He gazed at me with bloodshot eyes.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“For what?” I said.
“Listening,” he said. After a moment, he added, “For letting me say what I needed to say.”
Better late than never, I thought. “I’m only sorry I didn’t do it sooner.”
I don’t know how long we sat like that, wrapped around each other. When I finally looked up, I realized Shiloh was gazing at me. Instead of saying anything more, he put his lips to mine.
He tasted like tears. But after I ran and locked the door, then returned to him and let him tug off my clothes with the same urgency I was using to undress him, and he entered me and I bit my lip, lest I cry out and risk scarring our children for life . . .
Well, he felt just like the man I’d fallen in love with in Puerto Rico thirteen years earlier.
THIRTY-THREE
I could have thought of seventy-three different ways to spend Labor Day weekend, none of which involved burying my father. But I could no longer justify delaying the inevitable, and the cemetery had been able to fit us in that Sunday. And so we were in the Detroit suburbs until the holiday, when we would head back to New York.
“Well? How was the drive?” I asked. It was Saturday night, and Paul, Charlie, and the boys had just joined us at the hotel restaurant where we’d decided to have dinner.
“Better than a stick in the eye?” said Max. He had my coloring, but otherwise looked just like Paul, if Paul were constantly grinning and cracking jokes. Toby, on the other hand, had Charlie’s broad shoulders and easygoing personality. Unlike Isa and Charlotte, I couldn’t remember ever having heard the boys argue with each other.
Toby laughed. “Barely.”
“Us, too,” said Isa, rolling her eyes.
“Should we get our own table?” I said jokingly.
“Why don’t we?” said Charlie. “The place is empty—it shouldn’t be a problem to get a couple of separate booths.”
“We’re happy to watch the littles,” said Toby, and Charlotte pretended to punch him.
Don’t Make Me Turn This Life Around Page 21