Life and Other Near-Death Experiences (9 page)

SIXTEEN

I woke the following morning with an excruciating headache, rum scum coating my tongue, and the urge to do something constructive. I suppose when you’ve already cashed in ten of the estimated hundred and eighty days left of your life, there’s a smidgen of pressure to push through your hangover and make it count.

I downed a bowl of coconut granola, threw on some sneakers, and applied bug repellent to my skin. Then I hopped in the Jeep and headed for a hiking path I’d read about in one of the tourist booklets lying around the beach house.

The path was part of a recently formed national park on a section of the old naval grounds, but other than a metal sign designating that it was open to the public until ten p.m., it was almost impossible to differentiate the park from any other overgrown area I’d encountered thus far. I left the Jeep in a lot adjacent to the sign, then ventured over to what appeared to be a dirt trail. As per usual, Paul’s voice whispered in my ear, warning of predators, but I hummed loudly to drown him out. What could be nearer to God than nature? Surely here of all places I would be safe and protected.

As I stepped over a downed tree, I found myself imagining what life was like for the island’s early inhabitants, before there were roads or vehicles or Quick-Marts for purchasing drinking water that wouldn’t cause a bout of gastroenteritis to be reckoned with over a hole in the ground. As I forged ahead, the path became increasingly unkempt, and branches whipped against my face as spiky vines lashed my limbs. Smelling a meal, swarms of thumb-size mosquitoes deftly maneuvered around my swatting and jammed their stingers into my skin, as though the
DEET
I had applied were barbecue sauce.

I wasn’t trying to be a pioneer woman. I didn’t go camping and fishing for fun, nor did I even
pretend
to enjoy rugged outdoor activities, as my former colleague Corey did because her husband was disturbingly aroused by camouflage-covered mammaries. But I
was
trying to learn more about why my mother found this lot of sand in the middle of the sea to be so magical, and the verdant parks were part and parcel with the island’s identity. So I pressed on.

It wasn’t long before the narrow path deposited me at two wider trails, both of which looked well maintained, as though they might even be the handiwork of a landscape architect. I was elated: finally, a hike I could manage! I chose the path on the right.

I’d gone about a quarter mile when I heard a loud rumbling. For a moment I expected to see more wild horses—perhaps a whole herd, I thought as the noise drew nearer.

Instead, I found myself staring down a very different sort of horsepower as a yellow pickup truck barreled straight at me. A group of kids were yelling out the windows, and as the vehicle approached, I saw that the truck bed, too, was filled with rowdy teens. I stepped to the right, out of the center of the path, but then the truck veered left, directly into my path. Did the driver not see me? Was this some sadistic game of chicken? The only thing I was sure of was that I needed to move. Immediately.

With seconds to spare, I jumped into the bushes behind me, scratching every square inch of uncovered skin in the process. My pulse whooshed in my ears, and I struggled to breathe. If I hadn’t moved, they would have hit me.

They would have hit me.

There was laughter as the truck spun its wheels in the dirt and turned onto another path, disappearing into the trees.

I remained huddled in the bushes in case the teens wanted to return and finish me off. It seemed appropriate to burst into tears, but I was dry-eyed, which was unusual for a chronic crier like myself. I sat still and stone-faced, not even bothering to fight off the bugs feasting on my flesh.

Then a bloodcurdling scream shot through the park. It took me a moment to realize that it was my own, and it was about to happen again. As a deep and furious anger I hadn’t even known was in me unleashed itself, I screamed again and again, until my chest burned and I was too hoarse to scream anymore.

If this had happened even three weeks earlier, I would have been mortified to make such a spectacle—even in the middle of miles of uninhabited vegetation. But now it didn’t matter. I wasn’t sure
anything
mattered. I had been a good person who had lived an honest if uninspired life; but in case I’d missed the previous two warnings, the universe sent a bright yellow truck to inform me in no uncertain terms that one way or another, I was going to die—and soon.

SEVENTEEN

A few moronic teens would not be allowed to ruin my vacation; at least that’s what I told myself the next morning as I drove to Isabel Segunda, Vieques’s primary town. Even after a solid night’s sleep and a long shower, the previous day’s shock had not worn off, but I was confident that a good cup of coffee, a baked good or three, and a change of scenery would help soothe my nerves.

Isabel Segunda was larger than Esperanza, and filled with pastel-colored shops, government offices, and more churches than I had ever seen in a single location. After strolling up and down a few blocks, I came upon a blindingly pink café, from which the scent of heaven itself—baked dough and sugar—wafted out. I walked in and sat at one of the bar stools that lined the U-shaped counter.

“What smells so good?” I asked the woman behind the counter.

“Mallorcas,”
said a voice.

I did not turn around as I responded. “Really?”

“Yeah, that’s really what they’re called,” Shiloh said, perching on the stool next to me. His hair was damp, as though he, too, had recently showered, although his T-shirt was at least two decades old, and his cargo shorts looked like they might walk off without him.

“No,
really
as in, you
really
couldn’t have picked a different place to get coffee?” I muttered, barely looking at him. “Don’t you have a plane to fly into the ocean or something?”

He smirked. “Actually, I’m on leave while the FAA investigates our little incident. So no, I will not be expertly landing a plane next to the beach in order to save your life again anytime soon.” He turned to the server.
“Hola, Cecelia. Dos mallorcas, por fa, y tres cafecitos.”

Just when I’d girded my loins, he had to go and speak Spanish. “Mind telling me what you just said?” I asked.

“I ordered you a coffee. You
do
drink coffee, don’t you?”

“I am to coffee as you are to pelicans,” I said. “I hope you asked for one of those mahor—”

“May-jor-ca,” he said. “And of course I did.”

“Excellent. So, given your spicy accent and knowledge of the local baked goods, I’m guessing you live here?”

He grinned. “I live a lot of places. My company has an apartment that I stay at between flights. The rest of the time, I stay at my place in San Juan.”

“The vagabond life. Interesting choice for a man your age.”

“I’m forty-two, and that’s a pretty judgmental thing to say for a, uh, twenty-nine-year-old woman traveling by herself.”

It was my turn to grin. “My male chaperone wasn’t available this month.”

“I bet he wasn’t. Something tells me that Tom guy would have been happy to escort you here.”

My smile evaporated. I didn’t want to think about Tom, which was proving far more difficult than I’d anticipated. I’d spent six thousand, five hundred, and some odd days with him (not that I was counting). Wasn’t the newfound knowledge of my Lilliputian lifespan enough to banish him from my mind?

“Sorry,” Shiloh said quickly. “I see that that one’s off-limits. No more talk about the guy whose name rhymes with bomb.”

In spite of myself, I laughed. “Thanks.” When I looked up again, those warm brown eyes of his were staring at me again, with no intent of looking away. I felt a jolt of wanton, unsettling excitement, then looked away with relief as the server slid white ceramic plates toward us, each topped with a huge buttered bun dusted with powdered sugar. She placed three small paper cups of coffee between the plates.

“Those are the smallest coffees I’ve ever seen,” I said to Shiloh. “Please tell me you ordered two for me.”

“You’re welcome to them, but I’m warning you, this place has the strongest espresso on the island.”

“If you say so.”

He sipped one, then turned to me again. “Hey, I never did ask you. What brings you to Vieques?”

“Lots of things,” I said vaguely. I bit into the bun, which all but dissolved on my tongue.

“Not bad, right?” he said.

I nodded and washed my mouthful down with a swig of coffee, which was every bit as strong as Shiloh had warned. “So you’ve been here”—he counted on his fingers—“four days now? Have you had Isla’s conch fritters yet?”

“What’s a conch fritter?” I asked.

“Oh, my. You’ve never had a conch fritter? We’ll have to fix that. Do you have plans tonight?”

I eyed him suspiciously. “Maybe. Why would you want to go to dinner with
me
?”

He cocked his head. “As you keep pointing out, I almost killed you. It’s the least I can do, don’t you think?”

Sure, since you know I have cancer.
“Okay,” I agreed, but only because I had nothing else to do. (That was my story and I was sticking to it.) “You know where I live.”

He winked. “That I do.” He pulled his sunglasses out of his front pocket, grabbed the bun from the plate, and took one of the coffees. “See you tonight, Libby.”

I watched him saunter away. He had broad shoulders and a high, firm ass. I had an uncanny capacity for catastrophe and a history of choosing the worst possible partners, both real and imagined.

It wasn’t until he was gone that I realized we hadn’t agreed on a time and I had no way to contact him. In fact, I didn’t even know his last name, and frankly, I was in no position to attempt to act like a normal human for a sustained period of time.

This was a very bad idea.

Just after seven, I heard tires rumble in the gravel outside the beach house. After one last glance in the mirror, I swung the door open and found Shiloh standing there.

“Hello,” he said lightly. He had on the same shorts from earlier, but had swapped his T-shirt for a crisp butter-colored button-down. I was wearing a sundress, which I felt stupid about, as it seemed very date-like and this was not a date.

“Hello,” I said as I locked the door behind me. “Do you want to drive or should I?”

“Why don’t I, since I know where it is?”

“That’s fine,” I said, standing stiffly in front of his Jeep. The easy-if-barbed banter of our café conversation was long gone, and I lamely tried to think of appropriate ways to interact with him, which made me even more uncomfortable.

He opened the passenger door and offered me his arm, which I accepted, but not before adding, “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Shiloh said, giving me a curious look as he closed the door behind me.

“So, Chicago,” he said as we backed out of the drive. “I haven’t been there since I was in my twenties. Is it still cold?”

“Like the Arctic.”

He laughed as though this was actually funny, and I decided I was right about the cancer pity. I’d have to put an end to that. “How’d you end up there?” he asked.

I tugged a curl, then sat on my hands so I would stop fidgeting. “Um . . . honestly? My ex. His best friend was already in Chicago, and he thought it would be a good place to launch his career.”

“And you?” he asked. “What did you think?”

I wanted to be with Tom wherever he was. But there was no way I was going to admit this. “I thought I would like it. And I did, until a few weeks ago.” I was grateful when he didn’t ask me to elaborate.

We pulled up at a restaurant tucked into the hillside, right off the side of the road. The banisters and awnings were strung with holiday twinkle lights, and as we entered, I saw that most of the tables were in an open-air courtyard.

“
Hermano
, how’s it going?” the bartender called to Shiloh.

“
Bien
, Ricky,
bien
,” he said, and started rambling in Spanish. At which point he stopped being the guy who almost killed me and started being the one I wanted as my main course. Yes, I’d heard his romance-language routine at the café, but this was different. He was having a full-blown conversation, and it shifted his whole demeanor. His hands flew around. His laughter deepened. He oozed confidence and, you know. Sex.

“Sorry about that, Libby,” he said as the hostess seated us at one of the booths in the open-air courtyard. “He’s chatty.”

“And you’re very fluent in Spanish,” I said, a bit accusatorially. It wasn’t that his being bilingual was such a surprise. It’s just that his English lacked the lilt I’d grown accustomed to since landing in Puerto Rico, so I had assumed he was from somewhere else. “You’re Puerto Rican?”

“Yeah,” he said. “My mom’s a Nuyorican—her parents were from here—but my dad was born and raised in Fajardo.”

“And were you raised here?”

“My parents split, so I was shuffled around way more than most kids like to be.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Hey, what can you do? Anyway, that was ages ago for this old man.” He smiled, and as I instinctively smiled back, a sharp zing shot through my hinterlands. I glanced away, acutely aware of the inappropriateness of the tingles I was feeling. My already pathetic judgment (see Ty, et al.) had undoubtedly been further weakened by the week’s events. What’s more, Shiloh knew I was going to die soon, so any relations between us would be laden with sympathy—or worse, the understanding that I would be an easy and extremely short-term lay.

I was relieved when the waiter appeared, although slightly disappointed when he started speaking to us in English.

“Am I allowed to order for myself?” I asked Shiloh, eyebrows raised.

“As long as you order the you-know-whats.”

I glanced up at the waiter. “An order of conch fritters and the tuna steak.”

“And to drink?” the waiter asked.

“Something strong.”

“I’ll have the same entrée and a Corona,” Shiloh said.

The waiter brought me a tumbler filled with guava juice and rum, which was tastier than Milagros’s rocket fuel, and which relaxed me to the point that I was able to chat about trivial things with Shiloh until the fritters arrived. (For the record, they were as edible as anything battered and deep-fried, but not particularly earth-shattering.) I had just started on my tuna when Shiloh asked, “So, is this trip a pre-chemo celebration?”

My head jerked up in surprise, and then I put my fork down—just to be on the safe side. “Pre-chemo? Um, no. I’m not going to get treatment.”

He looked stunned. “You’re not? Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to do that to myself.”

“It’s not that bad. Definitely preferable to dying.”

“I told you already, the doctor said it wouldn’t matter. I’m toast.”

His eyes flashed with an anger I hadn’t seen in him before. “Ef your doctor. Get a second opinion.”

“I already consulted Dr. Google, who confirmed that no second opinion is going to stop my guts from turning to rock-size tumors while my skin falls off,” I said matter-of-factly.

“You don’t know that for sure.” His face was getting slightly red, and a thin layer of sweat had formed on his brow. I wondered if someone close to him had died after receiving bad medical advice.

I shrugged. “Listen, I appreciate your concern. But I’ve had more than my fair share of experience with cancer, and I want to live out my final days in the most pleasant way possible. Chemo and radiation don’t exactly fall under that umbrella.”

He took a long swig of beer, then held my gaze. “If God, or whatever you believe in, wanted you to be dead, why aren’t you at the bottom of the sea right now? I’m a decent pilot, Libby, but now that I’ve had a few days to sit on it, I’m going to call that landing a minor miracle.”

“So all that talk about life being a near-death experience was crap, huh?”

The heat of his anger was instantly replaced with a cool distance as he sighed and leaned back in the booth. I, too, was having a quicksilver shift, as desire gave way to a rush of irritation.

“You are exasperating,” he muttered.

“Lucky you, you won’t have to deal with my exasperating tendencies after this evening,” I shot back.

The waiter came over to take our plates. “How about dessert?” he asked. “Or another drink?”

“No,” Shiloh and I said at the same time.