Life and Other Near-Death Experiences(14)

It was cold as I shook it. “Yes, I’m easy to find online,” I told him. Just search the obituaries.





EIGHT


The thing about life is, you think it’s going to go on forever, that there couldn’t possibly be an end to your story, at least not in the foreseeable future. But then around the time you—and by you, I mean me—should be having the stirrings of a midlife crisis, a stranger in a white coat tells you that you are no longer a member of the general population and do not have another forty-five-and-a-half years to warm up to the idea of dying.

Cue my end-of-life crisis.

Really, crisis is a kind way to describe what I was going through; it was more like a full-blown meltdown, although at the time I thought I was being quite reasonable. And while I would like to blame the cancer and Tom’s untimely outing, or even Cool Hand Ty and the Rejections (which would be my band name in my next life, I decided), it was really Shea who hurtled me to the front line of my emotional Chernobyl.

Because Shea, with her company and charitable donations and mother-fracking fertility, was the embodiment of everything I was not, had never been, and would never, ever get a chance to be.

What have I done that has made a real impact? I wondered as I sat shivering on my deck, which overlooked row after row of condos and a malodorous McDonald’s. I sent the occasional hundred dollars to my local public radio station. There was the time in tenth grade that I successfully petitioned for my high school to stop dissecting fetal cats in the biology lab. Last year, I teamed up with the IT department to create a shared network that allowed my colleagues to access one another’s files from any location, leading to fewer vacation-and illness-related workflow interruptions. Being chained to my desk most days, I didn’t have the opportunity to use the network myself, but I was told it was a lovely innovation.

Nothing, I concluded. Unlike Shea, I had not done a damn thing to crow about, let alone be privately proud of, and that was far more awful than learning that my supposed life partner had relinquished his role.

I contemplated taking another sleeping pill or seven, but called Paul instead. He picked up on the first ring. There were people in the background, lots of them, and they sounded shmacked.

“Where are you?”

“A bar. I’m out with some of my coworkers. Market’s closed for the week, remember?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said, only then recalling that it was Friday. “Well, can you put on your money goggles for a few more minutes?”

He laughed. “They never come off, Libs. Is this about divorce lawyers? Because I already looked into it. It’ll run you about twenty-three thousand, give or take a few. Mediation’s a fraction of that, but if you want to take Tom to the cleaners, I suggest spending more up front.”

“He’s worth nothing.”

“You can say that again, sister.”

I blinked hard, trying to keep the tears at bay. It was pointless; Paul could smell my sob from eight hundred miles away. “Oh, Libby. I know you don’t like it, but I’m sending you a psychic hug right now. Mmm-mmm! Okay, now hold on, I’m going outside so I can hear you better.”

When the commotion died down, I asked him how much money I would need to live on for a year. I probably wouldn’t last that long, but just in case, I didn’t want to be a burden, not even to Paul, who had roughly a trazillion dollars tied up in investments and property but who also had two children to care for.

“Are you taking a year off?” he said with a mix of delight and horror. Paul became comatose when he wasn’t working, and had two smartphones on his person at all times. But he liked the idea of downtime and was constantly telling me to take a break.

“Affirmative.”

“What are you going to do with yourself?”

“I’m going on vacation. Then maybe I’ll come see you and spend some time with Dad,” I said vaguely. If our mother’s ovarian cancer was any indication, I would also lose half my body weight, pretend not to be in horrific pain, and compensate by sleeping for fifteen to twenty hours at a time. But Paul would learn this soon enough.

“Perfect! The twins will be so happy to see you, and we can do career brainstorming while you’re here. I think you would make a brilliant hedge fund manager.”

“If that was true, I wouldn’t be calling you to figure out how much cash I need.”

“I do see your point. So . . .” He muttered a few numbers to himself, then rattled off a figure that was higher than I was expecting. “I want to double-check this when I have my computer in front of me, but I’m assuming you’ll need to front your own health coverage and will end up paying the entire mortgage on your own. You’ve been following my plan, haven’t you?” he asked, referring to the budget he created for Tom and me several years ago.

“Of course. Paul?”

“Hit me.”

“Wh—”

“Ow!” he exclaimed, and in spite of myself, I laughed; I’d been falling for that stupid joke since we were kids.

“Seriously, though. What if I sell the condo?”

“And come live with me for a while? I could turn the whole bottom floor of the brownstone into a private apartment for you.”

“Maybe,” I said vaguely, as I had no intention of actually moving in with him. “How much would I need then?” I wanted to liquidate as many assets as possible. Also, the idea of Tom being homeless was appealing.