Then she looked over at me. “Don’t worry—I’ll be careful about my insulin,” she said.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” I said. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“So how was it?” I whispered to Paul as we trailed behind Shiloh and Charlie, who were chatting about soccer.
“To quote my son, better than a stick in the eye,” he said. “But not by much.”
“Have you told him what you told me when we got home from Puerto Rico?”
Paul’s shoulders slumped. “Yes,” he said in a low voice. “I’ve apologized repeatedly, and he’s accepted each time, but neither of us seems to know where to go from there.”
I didn’t have an answer for that, and anyway, we were nearly at the booth where the hostess was seating us.
“What’s new, you two?” asked Charlie. If he was uncomfortable, he didn’t show it—though then again, the man was a professional actor.
Shiloh cleared his throat. “Um, the big update at the Ross-Velasquezes is that I have a lymph node in my groin that I have to get removed. It’s possible I might have cancer again, so I’ll be going in for a full-body scan in a couple weeks.”
Charlie and Paul looked stricken.
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” added Shiloh.
“Hey, man, it’s not bad news yet,” said Charlie.
“Agreed,” said Paul. “Do the girls know?”
“No, but we’ll talk to them next week, before the tests.” Beneath the table, I reached for Shiloh’s hand. He squeezed it and smiled at me. He looked back at Paul. “I’m lucky to have Libby by my side.”
I saw Charlie’s eyes flit to Paul, who was looking at him. It happened so fast that I almost wondered if I’d imagined it. But no—a glance had been exchanged.
“And I’m lucky to have you,” I told him.
He smiled. “That’s the best part of marriage—in a world full of unknowns, you have a known. That’s basically the holy grail.”
I looked at Paul, not caring if I was being obvious. “Yes,” I agreed. “Yes, it is.”
The following morning, we were standing at the entrance of the cemetery with Paul, Charlie, and the boys. We’d awoken to the sound of rain beating down on the hotel room, but it had since slowed to a drizzle; we huddled beneath black umbrellas that Paul had the good sense to pick up at a drugstore on the way. “You ready?” he asked when I hugged him hello.
“No,” I said, but then I corrected myself. “Yes, I am. I feel like he’s been waiting long enough.”
“I know. We should have done this a while ago, but . . .”
“We’re here now,” I said, and darn it, the dam had burst and here came the flood. Before I could even sniff, Paul was handing me a tissue. I wiped my face. “Let’s go do this,” I said.
The cemetery was located in a small Detroit suburb; our mother had been laid to rest there because it was where her parents and grandparents had been buried. I hadn’t been to visit since Paul and I had made the trip thirteen years ago. As he took my hand and we made our way through the winding path down the center of the rolling hills, I was comforted that little had changed.
But one change was unmistakable: the gray granite headstone that was now beside my mother’s.
PHILIP EDWARD ROSS, 1944–2018
BELOVED FATHER AND HUSBAND
Paul and I had decided on an informal event, knowing it was what our father would have wanted. After Paul spoke quietly with the gravedigger who was waiting for us at the plot, he took a spot beside the gravestone, holding the urn in his hands, and began to speak.
“They say the mark of true character is what a person does when no one else is looking. But growing up as a gay boy in a time and place where that was considered shameful, it was what my father did when everyone else was looking that showed me who he was,” he said. Like me, he already had tears streaming down his face, but he didn’t bother wiping them away. “Dad loved and accepted me and made sure everyone knew that. He never asked me to change a thing about who I was, and because of that, I was able to learn to love and accept myself, too.” He sniffled and paused for a minute before continuing. “I know it was so hard for him after my mother died, and though he didn’t pretend that he wasn’t tired or that he always knew what he was doing, he never once made Libby and me feel like we were a burden to him. Instead, he acted like we were what made his days bearable. He was such a good man.” Paul looked up at me and managed to smile. “Libby, remember what he’d say whenever he screwed up and we called him on it? ‘Gosh darn it, you two, don’t make me turn this life around!’”
I nodded, laughing through my tears.
“Philip Ross was the best man I’ve ever known,” said Paul, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I will miss him every day of the rest of my life, even as I know those days are sweeter because I had the luck of having him as my father.”
He was weeping, but before I could go to him, Charlie took him in his arms. Then Toby and Max put their arms around their fathers, and the four of them held each other and cried.
Please, I thought as I watched them. Please let them figure this out.
“Libby?” said Shiloh, touching my arm softly. “Do you want to say anything?”
I turned to him, which was when my neurons started making all kinds of terrible connections. What if the next funeral I attended was my husband’s? I looked at Isa and Charlotte, who were standing somberly beside Shiloh. All this time I’d worried about myself dying, but I’d never considered that they might spend part of their childhood without their father. And their father was the kind that my own father would be proud of. Had been proud of; he’d treated Shiloh like his own son and had boasted about him to anyone who’d listen. He’d loved to tell people how Shiloh switched between Spanish and English without missing a beat and flew planes and was the kind of husband he’d “always hoped my daughter would have.” He’d loved Tom, but he’d never once said that about him.
I swallowed hard, even as the tears kept flowing, then went to stand behind my parents’ headstones, where Paul had just been. I’d prepared something to say, but now it felt all wrong. I decided I would just share what was in my heart.
“I don’t know if everyone has a soul mate,” I began, looking at Shiloh. “Like the afterlife, I think it’s one of those concepts we all have to work out for ourselves—and even then, we’re probably just guessing. But if I know one thing, it’s that my father loved my mother more than life itself, and her death didn’t change that even the slightest bit. I keep thinking about this photo he sent me right after I was first diagnosed with cancer. The two of them were on the beach in Vieques. They were newlyweds, so in love that you could feel it beaming right out of the photo. My mother was pregnant with me and Paul then, actually, and she and my father had no idea about the difficulties that lay ahead.”
Paul was handing me another tissue, which I accepted, and I took a moment to compose myself. Already, the sun was breaking through the dark clouds, and I could tell that the sky would soon be as blue as if there had never been rain at all. In a few short hours, the stars would appear. But I didn’t need to watch them glitter to know that my mother and father were out there somewhere, somehow, smiling down at the legacy they’d left behind.
“Even if they’d had a crystal ball and had seen every single thing coming, I’m willing to bet that they still would have been glowing like the world was their oyster. Because that’s what it feels like when you love and know you’re truly loved by another person.” Shiloh was holding my gaze now, and I smiled at him softly. I might lose him before I was ready, just like my parents. It was a risk I would have to take. “See, that’s the thing about love. You know it can’t last forever, and that no matter what happens, you’re going to have to say goodbye before you’re ready. But that doesn’t mean you don’t do it. It means you just try to love even more and even better, while you still have the chance.”
I took a deep breath and looked around at the wonderfully flawed pe
ople I had the good fortune of calling my family. Paul and Charlie, who were holding hands and standing between their sons. Isa and Charlotte, who were huddled together and smiling softly at me. Shiloh, whose warm eyes were still resting on me.
Then I looked at the granite headstones that were but mere placeholders for my parents. I would always wish they were with me; I would always want more chances to love, to laugh, to take one more spin around the sun. That was what it felt like to be fully alive. But this day, this moment, was a gift.
And it was more than enough.
EPILOGUE
Three weeks after we got back from Vieques, the girls and I were returning from a walk in Prospect Park when I saw a bright yellow butterfly resting on the wrought-iron fence outside of our apartment. Sometimes you know before you know; I wasn’t surprised to find Shiloh sitting at the table, waiting for me. When he looked up at me, his eyes were brimming with tears. “Milagros is gone,” he said. “I’m sorry, Libby.”
Oh, how I was, too. But now, finally, I knew that trying to pretend otherwise would only make it hurt worse.
Several days later, a FedEx envelope arrived for me; Hector’s name was on the return address. That night, after the girls went to bed, I turned on the patio lights and went outside to open the envelope.
Inside, there was a handwritten letter paper-clipped to a stack of legal documents. I waited a second for my eyes to adjust to the dim light, then began to read.
Dear Libby,
If you’re reading this, I’m winking at you from the sky. Hola, mija!
I’ve had hundreds of people stay at my guesthouse over the years. You could have been any one of them—someone who had a friendly chat or two with me, then let me fade into the memory of their time in Vieques.
But I knew from that first day when we had drinks that you weren’t just another traveler. Even though you were hurting, you had a spark that reminded me of myself. You and I—we know that two people can have the exact same experience and walk away with two different stories. This life is only ever what we make of it.
I know you’ve had a rough go of it lately, and that you feel guilty about that. Don’t. Having a roof over your head and a family you love and a body that works the way you need it to doesn’t make your pain any less valid than anyone else’s. And life is pain, mija. Not always, but often enough—and gracias a Dios for that, because without it, how would we ever truly appreciate all the good that comes alongside it?
Entonces! This is a long way of saying that you are very important to me, Libby. I treasure our friendship and all the smiles you’ve put on my wrinkled face over the years. I love that you love Vieques and the people of Puerto Rico—and not just because you married one of them.
Which is why I’m leaving my home, and my guest home, to you, Shiloh, Isa, and Charlotte.
I know it’s a lot. But I don’t have a relative who deserves it—or even wants it, unless it’s to sell to a developer, ay. And Hector already has two homes, not including Flor’s! He doesn’t need or want it. I didn’t tell you I was going to do this when you were in Vieques because I didn’t want you to spend your whole trip thinking about it—or feeling guilty because you felt you didn’t deserve it. You do.
I’m sure you’re wondering how you’re going to manage to take care of a place that’s far from your own home. I don’t have that answer. But I’ve read your palm and seen your lifeline—remember that time when you first arrived in Vieques?—so I know you have time to figure it out. And isn’t that the best gift of all?
I know you miss me, and believe me when I say I miss you, too. But remember—once you love someone, they’re with you. Always.
Te quiero siempre,
Milagros
“Libby?” said Shiloh, opening the sliding door. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I said, wiping the tears from my eyes. I stood and handed him the letter and waited for him to read it.
“Wow,” he said when he finished. “I . . . I don’t even know what to say.”
“Right?” I said. “Even after she’s gone, Milagros manages to surprise us.”
“What do you think?”
“I think we have a retirement plan,” I said, breaking into a smile. “I think it’s generous and amazing and completely crazy. What about you?”
“I have to admit, I love the idea of living there, at least part-time.” He wrinkled his nose. “But what if it’s back?”
He meant his cancer; we still had a few more days until he went in for his follow-up tests.
“Then we’ll work around that,” I said. “This isn’t our first rodeo—we know how to handle it.”
He wrapped his arms around me. “You’re absolutely right.”
“Say it again,” I said, and he laughed and put his lips to mine.
As I closed my lids and kissed him, I could see my favorite beach, where tiny shells dotted the sand and calm waters stretched for miles. I saw a patio, too, where a hammock hung between a pair of palm trees and orchids grew wild. And I saw a home filled with love, where a family—and yes, their small, one-eyed dog—was ready for whatever came next.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dear reader,
The storm that Libby and her family experience is fictional, though loosely based on a storm I experienced while in Vieques in the summer of 2019. But as you may know, Hurricane Maria was all too real. It struck Puerto Rico in September 2017, and as I write this, the island is still recovering from the devastation that impacted its residents, infrastructure, and economy.
One way to support Puerto Rico’s recovery is to visit the mainland or one of its smaller islands, such as Vieques, if you have the chance. I’ve been traveling to Puerto Rico regularly with my husband, who is Puerto Rican, for the past twenty years; now we spend part of each summer there—not just to give our kids a chance to know their heritage, but also because it’s my favorite place in the whole world. If you do go, I’d love to hear what you think. My contact information is on my website, www.camillepagan.com, and I read every email.
All my best,
Camille
P.S. If you enjoyed Don’t Make Me Turn This Life Around, please take a second to write a brief review; reviews make a world of difference for a novel’s visibility and success. If you already did, thank you! Either way, I appreciate you taking the time to read my latest. You, dear reader, are why I write.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing and editing a novel in the middle of a global pandemic was a challenge I hope I’ll never have to accept again, and it’s no exaggeration when I say I couldn’t have managed it without the support of my family and friends. Thank you to my husband, JP, and to our children, Indira and Xavi, for giving me the time and space to craft this book. Lauren Bauser, Shannon Callahan, Ann Garvin, Stefanie and Craig Galban, Kelly Harms, Laurel and Joe Lambert, Stevany and Tim Peters, Katie Rose Guest Pryal, Alex Ralph, Sara Reistad-Long, Pam Sullivan, Mike and Michelle Stone, and Darci Swisher: I am so lucky to have you in my corner.
Likewise, my deep gratitude to my editor, Jodi Warshaw, for helping me shape this story as well as my writing career; Tiffany Yates Martin for her wise and witty editorial guidance; my agent, Elisabeth Weed, for being—well, the absolute best; Danielle Marshall, Mikyla Bruder, Gabriella Dumpit, and the entire Lake Union team for their continued support; Michelle Weiner at CAA for championing my work; and Kathleen Carter and Ashley Vanicek for helping my books find their way to readers.
I’d especially like to thank my youngest sister, Janette Noe Sunadhar, for being gracious enough to answer my endless questions about what it’s really like to live with type 1 diabetes.
And thank you to the Lizarribars, Pagáns, and Rodriguezes for making Puerto Rico my home away from home for the past two decades.
Read more about Libby and her family in Life and Other Near Death Experiences by Camille Pagán.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2017 Myra Klarman
Camille Pagán is the #1 Amazon Charts
and Washington Post bestselling author of seven novels, including This Won’t End Well, I’m Fine and Neither Are You, and Life and Other Near-Death Experiences, which has been optioned for film. Her books have been translated into nearly two dozen languages. Pagán has written for the New York Times; O, The Oprah Magazine; Parade; Real Simple; Time; and many other publications. She lives with her family in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Learn more about her work at www.camillepagan.com.
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