Life and Other Near-Death Experiences (17 page)

THIRTY

Chicago greeted me at the jet bridge with a gust of frozen air. I collected my bags from luggage claim, then zombie walked to the L train on the other side of the airport. Sitting on a hard bucket seat, I watched the train rise from beneath the ground until it was above the city. As leafless trees and buildings streamed past in a gray blur, I told myself,
This is a mistake.
I’d never been one for second-guessing, but then again, I’d never before been kicked in the teeth by cancer only to be sucker punched by my husband. Why had I come back to a place that was a massive symbol of all that had been, and perhaps still was, wrong with my life?

But a promise was a promise, and I’d made the same one to both Shiloh and Paul. So after I got off the train and let myself into my echoing, ice-cold apartment, I dialed Dr. Sanders’s office. When I gave the receptionist my name, she told me to hold. A few minutes later, Dr. Sanders came on the line.

“I wasn’t expecting to speak with you,” I said.

“I’m between appointments,” he said, as though this explained everything. “Elizabeth—”

“I believe we established that I go by Libby.”

“Libby,” he said, “have you sought medical care since, um, our last visit?”

I finished gnawing on a hangnail before answering. “Not really. That’s kind of why I’m calling. I’d like to find out what my options are.”

He exhaled. “I’m relieved to hear that. I’d like you to start by meeting with the team here. You’ll need a scan, blood tests, then an appointment with oncology . . .” He droned on like this for a while.

“Okay,” I said when he’d finally stopped talking. “When?”

“Really?” He sounded surprised, disappointed even, like he’d been geared up to make more of a case for himself. “I can get you in for testing as early as tomorrow.”

It was my turn to sound surprised. “Really?”

“Yes. I don’t want you to wait a second longer. I’ve been chatting with a chief oncologist here, and there’s a clinical trial that you may be a candidate for—well, I’m getting ahead of myself. We’ll talk more when you come in. Stay on the phone and Kelly will arrange everything for tomorrow and beyond for you. Eliz—Libby, I’m so glad you called.”

Tomorrow was as good a day as any. Of course, I wasn’t planning to get treatment in Chicago, but I would explain that when I saw him.

Though it was only five p.m., I was exhausted and had already texted both Paul and Shiloh to let them know I’d arrived. There was nothing of any importance to do. I slowly lowered myself off the counter and went to the bedroom, where I stripped down and slid between the icy sheets. I fell asleep almost instantly, and woke several hours later, feverish and beaded with sweat. Disoriented, I reached beside me, expecting Shiloh to be there, or maybe Tom, only to realize I was on my own. My heart sank. I closed my eyes and waited for unconsciousness to set in.

The next morning, swaddled in the warmest clothes I hadn’t sold, donated, or shipped off to Paul’s, I walked the few brisk blocks to the L. The Blue Line took me to the Loop, where I transferred to the Red Line.

“This is Chicago. Clark and Division is next,” said an electronic voice as I reached my stop. Passengers rushed past me toward the train’s double doors, but I couldn’t seem to unstick my feet from the laminate floor.

Ding-dong went the alert.

“Doors closing,” said the voice overhead.

But I just stood there, as motionless as Lot’s salt-pillar wife, until the train began to move again.

I rode the Red Line until the last stop, then turned around and took the opposite path home. I could have gone to my appointments late or rebooked the first one that I missed, but I didn’t.

“Don’t change your mind about treatment,” Shiloh had said. He must have known that when push came to shove, I couldn’t even bring myself to step inside a doctor’s office. That deep down, I was too afraid.

When I returned to the apartment, I called Jess, making the decision just an instant before I pressed the Call button.

“Are you free?” I asked before she could greet me.

“You’re back?!”

“Sadly, yes. Wanna get a drink?”

“Christ, Libby. It’s not even eleven o’clock in the morning. Are you feeling okay?”

Not really,
I thought. “We can meet at noon if it would make you more comfortable.”

“Now is good.”

“Great. Café De Luca. See you there.”

De Luca was halfway between Jess’s apartment and my own; we’d spent many hours there over the years. She was perched at the bar when I walked in, but immediately hopped off her stool to greet me. “Libby, you look . . .” She regarded me with what can best be described as suspicion. “Skinny,” she concluded. “Slightly disheveled, but so damn tiny! And you’re
tan
! I’m jealous.”

I smiled; I was happier to see her than I had expected to be. “Guess extramarital sex agrees with me.”

Jess’s mouth popped open.

I laughed. “Sorry, did I say that out loud?”

“Tell me everything,” she said, dragging me back to the bar, where she ordered us a round of champagne.

I asked her how she’d been, but she waved my question off, eager for me to recount my trip. Her mouth was still hanging open when I finished. “I can’t believe you left your Latin lover behind!”

“Shiloh,” I said.

“Sorry, Shiloh. Does Tom know?”

“Of course not.”

“Probably for the best.” She tugged on one of the numerous thin, crystal-studded leather bracelets roped around her wrist. “He talks about you nonstop. He really wants to see you, Libby.”

I took a sip of champagne. “I’m sure he does.”

“Really, Libby. I’m being serious.”

“Whose side are you on, Jess?”

“Yours. Obviously,” she said, with a hint of exasperation. “It’s just that this is hard for Michael and me, too,” she said. “I don’t agree with what Tom did, but he’s like a brother to Michael. You know that.”

I drained my glass, then stared at the couple of air bubbles remaining on its sides. “Please don’t tell me about hard. I have cancer.”

“That is not funny.”

“No, it’s not,” I agreed. “Not even a tiny bit.”

Jess stared at me. “Are you for real?”

“For a limited time only, my dear.”

Her eyes welled with tears. “Oh, God, Libby. I am so sorry. What happened? When did you find out?”

I gave her the quick-and-dirty version. “So, that’s why I’ve been running around like I’ve had a partial lobotomy,” I concluded.

She shook her head. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“I don’t know. It just seemed like too much at the time.”

“What can I do to help, Libby? I’ll do whatever you need. Do you want me to talk to Tom for you?”

“Thanks, Jess. That means a lot to me. I know it’s a lot to ask, but would you mind not saying anything to him? I’m not ready for him to know. I’m not sure I ever will be.”

Jess must have been taking it easy on her beloved Botox injections, because the line in her forehead deepened at least half a centimeter. “You’re not going to tell him? Even after everything, he
is
your husband.”

I sighed. “Was, Jess. Tom
was
my husband. I’m not exactly brimming with self-knowledge right now, but I know enough to say with certainty that I don’t want him involved with anything relating to my health status. So would you mind helping me with this one thing?”

She nodded.

“Thank you.” I slid off my seat and gave her an enormous hug.

“Are you
hugging
me right now, Libby Miller?”

“I might be, but don’t get too used to it.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m going to New York for a while.”

“For treatment?”

“Something like that.”

She laughed and planted a kiss on my cheek. “Come back sooner this time, okay? And when I call you, pick up the phone.”

I smiled. “I’ll do my best.”

As I was falling asleep that night, a strange sensation overcame me. I was awake, but my body was paralyzed; it was almost as though I were encased in liquid glass, unable to move—not even to open my eyes. My chest was heavy, my breathing labored, and panic set in.
The cancer’s spreading,
I thought to myself. It had been more than a month since diagnosis, and I had already been fairly sure malignant cells were swimming through my body, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. I did not need one of Dr. Sanders’s fancy tests to tell me time was running out.

Then a peaceful feeling passed over me. I could have been dreaming, but it felt as though there was a cool, steady hand stroking my forehead.

As quick as it came on, the paralysis was gone. I sat straight up and reached for my phone on the bedside table, knowing what had to be done next.

THIRTY-ONE

I signed the real estate papers early, and had a notary sign a letter stating that Raj had the power to make any outstanding decisions on my behalf. Either Tom or I had to be present for the closing, but I was hopeful that Jess, newly aware of my predicament, would somehow be able to convince Tom to attend. The apartment sale would net nearly twice the amount I’d inherited from my mother’s life insurance.

It was a lot of money, at least to me. And yet the entire sum could be erased with one medical treatment, and it could turn out that said medical treatment did not make a lick of difference in my survival. I hated to even think about it.

I called Paul on the way home from Raj’s office. “Well?” he said.

“Well, what?” I said, knowing precisely what he meant.

“Have you called your doctor yet?”

“He’s not
my
doctor, and yes, I did call him.”

“So what did he say about treatment?”

“He said you and I should go to Detroit together.”

“No, he did not.”

“Okay, he didn’t exactly say that. But since you’ve gotten over your fear of flying—”

“Gotten
over
? More like developed urinary incontinence and a consortium of ulcers.”

“Even so, you got on a plane. Twice, in fact. So . . . would you consider coming with me to visit Mom’s grave? It’s been years.”

He was quiet for a minute. “It has been a long time,” he conceded. “I’m not exactly itching to join you, but you knew when you called that I wouldn’t say no.”

This was true. “It’ll be good for you,” I told him. “For us.”

“What would be good for
us
would be for
you
to get your butt in treatment. As in yesterday. Detroit can wait until you’re done.”

“It can’t, and I’m going either way. Before a single needle touches my body. It would mean a lot if you came with me.”

“What happened to the lovely and compliant sister who was under my sway not one whole week ago?”

“She’s still here, Paul. Mostly. And she needs you.”

“You’re the worst, Libs. The absolute worst. Call me tonight so we can coordinate flights.”

I sighed with relief. In spite of my threats, there was no way I was doing this without him.

Two days later, I touched down in Detroit, where Paul was waiting for me at the rental-car desk. As he embraced me, he said, “Sweet, sweet Libs. Have you slept since we last spoke?”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to judge, chunks,” I said, attempting—and failing—to find extra flesh on his side to pinch. “What are you up to now, seven percent body fat?”

He took my suitcase from me. “Don’t try to change the subject.”

“All I’ve been doing is sleeping,” I said, thinking of the twelve hours I logged the night before. “It’s like I’m falling into a coma at an incredibly slow speed.”

“And what does your doctor say about that?” he asked as we walked through a set of automatic doors to the parking lot where our car was waiting.

I shrugged.

Paul stopped in the middle of the walkway connecting the airport to the parking lot and stared at me.

“Move before you get run over,” I said as a small red car sped at us.

Still staring, he didn’t budge. “You’re really starting to freak me out. Don’t you think exhaustion is something to talk to the doctor about, given the circumstances?”

The red car honked at us, long and loud. Paul glared at its driver before moving. “It’s getting ridiculous,” he huffed as he pulled our bags behind him. “I’m basically waiting for you to tell me that you’ve tapped into
The Secret
and aren’t doing chemo because you plan to manifest your own good health from the goodness of the universe.”

“That would require far more optimism than I have at my disposal right now, Paulypoo,” I said, calling him the nickname I used to piss him off when we were kids.

“Just know that Paulypoo is not above having you committed, dear sis,” he said without so much as a hint of humor.

We checked into a generic hotel in a beige suburb not far from the airport. Paul only reserved one room because, as he told me, “I knew you wouldn’t want to be alone,” which was accurate. After settling in and freshening up, we drove into Detroit to a barbecue place Paul’s coworker had recommended.

The food was good, I guess; I didn’t much feel like eating.

Rather than continuing to prod me about my health, Paul found a fresh wound to poke at.

“You haven’t spoken to Shiloh once since you got back to the mainland, have you?”

“And what makes you say that?”

He extended his hand. “Hi, I’m your twin brother. Have we met?”

I didn’t shake it. “Perhaps we should dine in silence. You can scan my mind while I try to remember that deep in that dark heart of yours, you really do love me.”

“I’m surprised you fell so hard,” he said, ignoring my snark. “I really thought it was just a fling.”

“It
was
just a fling,” I said. Then I added morosely, “Unfortunately, I love him.”

“I know you do, you hopeless sap. I’ve gotta give it to you: I was almost convinced you would stay in Puerto Rico for him. He’s a nice guy, but I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Yeah.” I reached for the star around my neck.

“Ooh, shiny!” Paul said, noticing the necklace for the first time. “From him?”

“Yeah.”

He smiled wistfully. “It doesn’t have to be over, you know.”

“I know,” I said, though in truth, I knew no such thing.

Paul got up and moved his chair to the side of the table closest to me, then put a hand on my back. “It doesn’t have to be over,” he repeated. “Treatment won’t last forever.”

“It’s meant to be over. We barely know each other, and I have to focus on getting better.”

He squeezed my shoulder lightly. “That’s the Libby I know and love. Are you feeling better about Tom?”

“Tom who?”

“I take it you still haven’t told him.”

“Never will.”

“I’m not going to tell you what to do, but he’ll find out at some point. You might want to be the one to deliver the message.”

I pointed my fork at him. “I’ve delivered all of the messages I have for Tom.”

“You don’t feel bad for him? Just a little?”

As I moved the chicken on my plate around in small circles, I thought of an evening earlier in the year, probably no more than a few weeks before I first discovered the lump in my stomach. I’d taken a long shower, slathered my limbs with lotion, and draped myself in a short silk robe. I went to our bedroom, where Tom was lying on the bed. A book was propped on his stomach and he was staring blankly at the wall opposite the bed. He didn’t see me at first, so I stood in the doorway, admiring the perfect slope of his nose, the flat plane of his torso, and the way his long lashes stood out in the lamplight.
How incredibly lucky I am,
I thought. As familiar as my husband was, the very sight of him still made my skin prickle with pleasure. And I told myself, as I had so many other times, that God had given me him to right the loss of my mother.

On this particular evening, I’d crawled next to him and curled up in the crook of his arm. I ran my foot up and down his leg. As I was about to reach into his boxer shorts, he kissed the top of my head. “Love you, Libby,” he said. Then he picked up his book and began to read again.

Yet again, I used my optimism eraser to rub out all signs of doubt that night. I shouldn’t be offended. So he wasn’t in the mood at that particular moment. So what? He was a great husband, and when we did have sex, it was pretty good. I couldn’t expect perfection, now could I?

“No, I don’t feel bad for him,” I told Paul. “Frankly, I wish that it had been him diagnosed with cancer. I wish he’d died.” My voice was rising, and I knew the people next to us were trying not to stare; they probably assumed Paul and I were a couple quarreling. So be it. “Then I could have gone on believing that I had been loved fully and completely. Now I know that he wasn’t capable of loving me all the way, not in the way that I needed.” I sucked in my breath sharply.

Paul looked at me tenderly. “You’re right. You shouldn’t feel bad for him.”

“Thank you,” I said quietly. “Maybe one day I’ll get over him. I’d certainly like to. Right now I just wish he’d sign the fricking apartment papers.”

“Oh, he will,” he said, then took a sip of his wine. “If I have to hire a henchman to hold the pen in his hand and scribble his signature, he’ll sign it.”

“I like that you didn’t volunteer to do the dirty work yourself.”

Paul smiled. “It appears your violent streak is genetic.”

We paid the bill and returned to the hotel. While Paul called Charlie and the boys, I took out my contacts, scrubbed my face, and split Tom’s last sleeping pill in two, half of which I gave to Paul after he hung up the phone.

He popped the pill in his mouth and swallowed it without water. “Tomorrow,” he said.

The stiff mattress groaned beneath my weight as I climbed into my bed. “Tomorrow,” I repeated, and pulled a pillow over my head.

Of course we’d chosen the coldest day in November to visit the cemetery. I woke shivering, and a hot shower, a cup of coffee, and the thick sweater I put on made not a lick of difference. When we got in the car, I turned the heat on high and pointed the hot-air vents at my body.

“Don’t bother. It’s your nerves,” Paul said from beside me. “I shake like a wet chihuahua when I have to give bad news to a major client.”

“You, nervous? I don’t believe it.”

“Sock it away, because you won’t hear me admit it again.”

“I’m not nervous. Just . . .”

“Apprehensive,” Paul supplied.

“That,” I said. That and so many other confusing, unnameable emotions. My teeth were still clanking against one another like cheap china when we pulled into the cemetery. The iron gate and small sign had not changed, nor had the evergreens circling the perimeter. Yet, as I got out of the car, the field of graves before us appeared so much smaller than when I’d last visited.

Paul reached for my hand, and together we walked down the winding path through the center of the cemetery. I’d always thought of cemeteries as eerie, but on that morning I saw what some part of me already knew when I made my father drive out to my mother’s grave so many times: they were a place of comfort, too. I wasn’t sure why I’d been so set on ending up in an urn, but as we walked through the graveyard that day, I decided I would request that whatever was left of me be buried. Maybe even near my mother.

My breath caught as we came upon her grave site. Paul released my hand and knelt before the headstone, running his fingers over the etching in the granite.

I let him be alone for a few minutes, then walked over and sat next to him, cross-legged on the frozen grass in front of the large stone. I closed my eyes and began to speak to my mother in my mind—more like a prayer than an actual conversation, knowing that if she was listening, she would piece together the fragmented bits. I told her everything: about Tom, about Vieques and Milagros and Shiloh, and about my diagnosis. I told her I loved her and wished she were there. Then I opened my eyes and looked at the headstone again.

C
HARLOTTE
R
OSS—
1954–1989—B
ELOVED
W
IFE AND
M
OTHER

Beloved wife and mother: true, yet wretchedly insufficient.

Sometimes, when I was feeling especially blue, I would imagine what it would have been like if I’d been a different age when my mother died. At ten, I was old enough to understand the terrible thing that had happened to us, but too young to have soaked up so many of the details that I, as an adult, longed to know about her and her life. Now the little I did remember was fading with time. My mother’s hair, for example, was straight and chestnut brown, her eyes the same dark hazel as Paul’s. But what about her laugh? Was it the jingle of loose change I heard in my head, or was that something I’d imagined? Was she as fun loving and unfailingly kind as I recalled, or was that a fairy tale of my own creation? What had she thought of Paul and me? What did she dream for our futures—and her own? I would never know.

I would never know.

As that reality again set in, I put my head to the ground and cried for my family and all that we had lost. Beside me, Paul saw my shoulders shaking, took me in his arms, and cried with me, reminding me again that I was not alone.

That evening, I stared at the drab landscape print hung in our hotel room, thinking about Shiloh. I wanted to call him, to tell him about my day, but I worried that one call would lead to a cascade of correspondence that would make me question whether I should have asked him to come with me to Chicago, or if I should have stayed there and tried to get treatment in Puerto Rico, or—or, or, or. So many possibilities, and not a single one was right. I switched off the lamp and pulled the covers up to my neck.

Paul was sitting on the other bed, his face lit by the glow of his laptop. “I should have saved the last sleeping pill,” I told him. “Do you have any?”

“Nope.”

“Don’t they give you downers with your uppers?”

He finished typing, then turned to me. “I’m off the junk.”

“Really?”

“Yep. I haven’t touched a stimulant since a few months before the boys were born.”

“Hard to believe your energy owes nothing to a pharmacy.”

“Can’t argue with my God-given gifts.” He shut his laptop, switched off the lamp, and got in bed with me. “Will it help if I lie here?”

I closed my eyes. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Libs?” he said after a few minutes. “Remember when we were little?”

I opened my eyes, even though the hotel’s blackout shades had obscured all light, save the red digits of the alarm clock. “You mean how you used to trick me into doing things?” I said. “Like allowing you to lower me out of a second-story window using nothing but a sheet and your nonexistent manpower?”