Life and Other Near-Death Experiences(18)

“Thanks, Dad,” I said, and even though I promised myself that I wouldn’t, I sat on the other end and cried. “There, there,” he said at one point, which made me cry even harder.

“Sorry,” I sniffed when I could finally speak again. “Let’s talk about something else. How’s Dolores?” As far as Paul and I could tell, my father had been dating Dolores for about two years, but he insisted on referring to her as his “friend.”

“Oh, she’s good. We went to see a movie last week,” he said. I pictured him sitting in his small cedar-shingled bungalow, watching the Tigers in his Red Sox town, then going to bed alone. Even more than I regretted marrying Tom, I regretted not going to visit my father more over the past few years. I’d been wrapped up with work, and trying to get pregnant, and—well, every excuse was lame, and now none of it mattered. Maybe I would shorten my trip to a month so I’d have more good time with him.

“I’m thinking of going to Mexico, Dad,” I told him. I didn’t supply that I’d quit my job and already booked a ticket.

“Mexico? Honey, isn’t that a bad choice, seeing as how the two of you went there on your honeymoon?”

I hadn’t really thought of it that way, I confessed as I ran my hand along the countertop, which was cool to the touch. Tom claimed white soapstone was overdone to the point of being tacky, but it was one of the few features of the apartment I really liked.

“Every time you see a taco or sombrero you’re going to think of Tom,” my father said. “Is it okay if I say his name, or is that too much?”

“It’s okay.” I pictured Tom snorkeling beside me in the Gulf of Mexico. A giant stingray had just passed beneath us, and Tom, knowing I was panicking, calmly took my hand and gently tugged on it, signaling for me to follow him back to the shore. When we surfaced, he wrapped me in a dry towel and hugged me tight until my teeth stopped chattering. That was the thing about Tom: he always made me feel safe and warm. Now, when I most needed that sense of security, it was no longer available to me.

“Okay, good, because if I tried not to, I would probably end up saying it all the time. Anyway, honey, why don’t you go somewhere else? Like Hawaii. No, that’s too romantic, and that wouldn’t be good . . . hmm.”

“I’m still here, Dad,” I reminded him. He was in the habit of talking to himself, which was getting worse as he got older.

“Sorry, kiddo. Oh! I know. Puerto Rico. Go to Puerto Rico,” he said. “One of the best beaches your mother and I ever went to was on the southern side of this little run-down island called Vieques.”

“Really?” I asked. He did that on occasion—surprised me with some story about my mom that he’d never mentioned before, as though he was saving it up for just the right moment.

“Yep. The navy was there then, and the locals weren’t too thrilled about that, but I read in the paper that the government moved out a few years ago. Anyway, unless things have changed, it wasn’t a couples’ destination, and it was terrific. There was this bay where the water lit up at night, and there were horses running wild all over the place . . . your mother always said she wanted to go back one day.”

“Huh,” I said. The lit-up bay bit made him sound a little touched, but I was nonetheless intrigued.

He continued. “I think you’d like it. Everyone speaks English and Spanish, so that’s easy, and it’s a US territory and you don’t have to worry about changing your money into pesos or what have you. Although I do worry about you traveling alone. Maybe Paul could go with you, or your friend Jen,” he said, meaning Jess.

“I’ll look into it, Dad. Thanks for the suggestion.”

“You’re welcome. You know I love you, right, Libby Lou?”

I felt the sobs coming on. “Dad, I’ve gotta let you go, but I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“I hope so, kiddo. I really do.”



Even as I cried, I noticed it again—that speck of hope shining through. After all, my father had just provided me with the most inspired idea I’d had since stabbing Tom. My days were numbered, and I was wasting time in a city that was home to my sort-of-ex-husband, my should-have-been lover, and the doctor who’d given me the worst news of my life—but I didn’t have to stay. And why should I, when there was a Spanish-speaking, non-passport-requiring, solace-providing beach destination just a short plane ride away? Of course, I would be wasting money by abandoning the Mexico trip, but for once I didn’t care. The cash couldn’t go with me when I crossed over.

Yes, I would go to this Vieques Island and find out why my mother had loved it. I would go right away.



Tom ambushed me as I was leaving for the airport.

“Where are you heading, Libby?” he said, stepping out of the stairwell in front of our apartment.

I smiled out of habit, but then the more evolved neurons in my brain reconnected, and I remembered that this man was no longer my ally but rather the enemy.

“Fire!” I yelled, because I once read this was the fastest way to get help if you were being attacked.

“You can’t keep running,” he said, although he took a step back. He was probably afraid, and rightly so, that I would pull a kitchen utensil out of my coat after I finished accusing him of arson.