Life and Other Near-Death Experiences(26)

I stuck my chin out. I may have even pouted. “He most certainly is not.”

“Good, because you didn’t sound too excited about him calling you. What are you doing for dinner tonight?”

“Finding something in the fridge,” I said. “Given that I survived a near-death experience today, I’m not really up for exploring.”

He gave me a half smile. “Life is a near-death experience. But suit yourself,” he added lightly, as though I’d just rejected the offer he didn’t actually make. “Your suitcase is on the porch. See you around, Libby.”

I opened my mouth, but he was gone before I could get the words out.





FOURTEEN


It wasn’t enough that he almost scared the pants off me twice in one day. No, Shiloh had to go and inform me that nearly crashing into the Caribbean—to say nothing of the cluster muck of cells sapping away my life force—was no different from the unpleasantness of everyday existence.

Well, that pithy pilot was lucky I hadn’t assaulted him, I thought to myself the following morning. Which was progress on my part, I reasoned as I pulled off the T-shirt I’d slept in and stood before the bedroom mirror. It was a cheap full-length, and the wavy glass narrowed my waist while lengthening my incision, making it look even worse than it already did. I’d removed the bandage a few days before, thinking that some air would do the wound good, but the two-inch gash remained red and angry.

Stepping into my bathing suit, I commanded myself to stop thinking about Shiloh and cancer and anything that remotely rankled. I was going to the beach, and darn it, I was going to enjoy it.

This time I heeded Milagros’s warning and left everything of importance in the house, triple-checking the door to make sure it was locked. It was still early, and aside from an absurdly fit woman jogging barefoot down the shore, I was alone. I laid my towel out on the sand and headed for the water. The waves were cool as they rushed against my legs, then warm as they retreated back into the sea, so I waded in deeper. My incision stung, but I dove into the surf, determined to make friends with pain—or at the very least, to learn how to ignore it. Sure enough, the discomfort let up, so I went back under, holding my breath while the sea enveloped me, filling my head with its blunted gurgling sounds. Saltwater seeped into my mouth as I surfaced. I felt invigorated and alive, or whatever it is to be aware of your body as it is pacified by a fresh burst of oxygen and momentarily oblivious to the disease eating away at it. For the next few weeks, at least, I was going to be fine.

Except it didn’t appear that way, because Milagros, clad in a short orange housedress, came running down the beach hollering my name.

Reluctantly, I trudged back to the beach. “What is it, Milagros?” I asked as she approached the water’s edge.

“Ay, Libby, I thought you were drowning! Por favor, be careful. The tide is very strong right now. You see those waves?” she said, pointing into the distance.

“Those are, like, a mile out.”

“They’ll suck you right under,” she insisted. “Don’t go in past your belly unless you’re at a roped-off beach.”

“Okay,” I said, trying not to sigh and failing miserably. Luisa instructed me to give myself away like the sea, but come to find out, I was only able to do that in designated swimming areas.

“Bien. Oh, and, mija? I take drinks on my back porch every day at six. Join me if you can.”

Take drinks. This woman was too much. “Okay, Milagros,” I agreed. “See you then.”



While Paul inherited our mother’s sharp cheekbones, dark hair, and warm complexion, my resemblance to her was evident only in my medical files. As such, even with SPF four hundred slathered on, my pale skin was no match for Vieques’s proximity to the equator; after an hour on the beach, I was forced to head back to the house. I changed into a sundress and attempted to make myself presentable, then drove to Esperanza. Though it was not yet noon, the tiny town was bustling: families roamed about, smiling and squabbling in equal measure; bronzed surfer types in bodysuits toted boogie boards and kiteboarding equipment toward the water; and couples held cameras at arm’s length to snap nauseatingly gleeful selfies.

With no small effort, I parked the Jeep on the side of the road. Then I secured my wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses and set off on foot. As far as I could tell, most of the town proper was situated along a strip on the island’s southern coast. As I walked from one end of the strip to the other, I passed dive shops and trinket stands, white-tablecloth restaurants, and food trucks parked along the grassy stretch dividing the road from the beach. After weighing my options, I stopped at a restaurant with generic fare and private dining verandas overlooking the water.

“Just you?” asked the hostess.

“Just me,” I said. You would think I’d know how to dine alone, but you would be wrong. Although I’d devoured many a sandwich on a park bench during lunch, I’d never intentionally sat down at a real restaurant and eaten by myself. Given that I was traveling solo for an entire month, it seemed a good time to learn.

I pretended to study the menu, but the words blurred together, so when the waitress came to take my order, I blurted out the first thing that registered—a pulled pork sandwich with yucca fries, whatever those were. She left, and I looked around awkwardly. It was not unlike the airport bar. I didn’t know what to do with myself, and I hadn’t even thought to grab a book from the selection I’d packed. After some time, I settled on the water as an appropriate place to stare.