Life and Other Near-Death Experiences(32)

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.





EIGHTEEN


I would spend the rest of my vacation in solitude. After all, I had tried human connection and failed spectacularly. Sequestering myself away from all potentially irritating and/or murderous people, I reasoned, was the only way to protect what was left of my dignity and enjoy the little time I had left on my trip.

Said plan was rudely interrupted by Tom’s repeated calls. (I did turn the ringer off, but it was not enough to silence the repetitive buzzing or dim the screen glowing in the middle of the night as Tom phone-stalked me with a vigor he had never applied to many aspects of our marriage, including but not limited to adhering to our budget; attempting to fix things that broke in the apartment; and marital relations, particularly of the nonmissionary variety.) Seven calls later, I realized that he would not leave me in peace until I spoke with him, so the evening after my dinner with Shiloh, I finally picked up.

“Libby, why have you been avoiding me?” Tom.

“Gosh, I just don’t know, Tom.”

“Tell her you’re sorry, you idiot.” O’Reilly, hissing in the background.

“What the hell is O’Reilly doing listening in on our conversation?” Me, obviously.

“Li—” Tom.

“Listen to me, you piece of spit. If you’re going to have the balls to break up our marriage, then have the balls to deal with the fallout.”

“But I told you, I don’t want to break up our marriage.”

“He loves you, Libby!” O’Reilly.

“You’re my best friend.” Tom.

“I thought I was your best friend!” O’Reilly, who I was certain was blasted. Apparently Tom had been forced to lower his liquor standards because O’Reilly was sheltering him.

“No, Tom, I assure you that I am not. Best friends share secrets with each other.” Me, attempting to ignore my eyeballs, which had started to drip in an unfortunate way.

“I am so sorry, Libby. I never meant to hurt you.”

“He really didn’t, Libby!” O’Reilly, hollering in the distance.

“Shut up, Michael.” Jess.

“I don’t care if you’re sorry, Tom. Sorry doesn’t help at all. Please, do not call me again unless you’re able to borrow a vehicle from Marty McFly and go back in time and undo our entire relationship. Now go away.” Me. Click.