Life and Other Near-Death Experiences(43)

I almost asked how he knew I was there, but then I remembered that I had booked tickets on one of the credit cards I shared with him and that in my haste, I had removed him from the account but failed to change the password. That would need to be fixed soon. In the meantime, I told him to leave me alone.

“Your doctor’s office called me,” he insisted.

My stomach lurched. “You know sharing a person’s medical information without their permission is illegal, right?”

“They didn’t share anything. They just asked if I knew how to get ahold of you.”

“Good,” I said, watching a spindly brown bug approach my chair. As it crept closer, I lifted my foot, then changed my mind as I was about to crush it. I nudged it away with the edge of my sandal and watched it scamper in the opposite direction.

“Are you going to call them back, Libby?” he asked, sounding too kind and concerned for someone who was no longer supposed to be a part of my life. “Is everything all right?”

“Of course, it is,” I said, and it was almost believable. After all, what did sick mean? And what was well, anyway? I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, then opened them, fixing my eyes on a vein in my forearm that was pulsing like a river. To the left of the vein was a blackened freckle, and to the right, a small white pigment-free blotch—both remnants of the summers I spent slathered in baby oil beneath a baking sun. My eyes trailed down, past the festering flesh hidden beneath my cover-up, to the subtle curve of my calf muscles and my slender ankles. My imperfect body, deemed terminally unwell, was the best it would ever be. Soon it simply would not be at all. It was almost impossible to wrap my mind around.

“If the doctor calls you again, tell them we’re no longer married and give them my number,” I told Tom.

He hesitated. “Okay,” he said after a moment. “I know you’re upset with me, but I want you to know that I’m here for you if you need anything.”

Upset. Upset! Like the only reason I’d chosen to put two thousand miles between us was because he’d eaten the toaster waffle that I’d been saving for breakfast.

“I am fine, Tom,” I said sharply. “Now please, stop calling me.”

“Li—”

I ended the call before he could continue, not only because I didn’t want to speak with him. I was having the same feeling I’d had after the plane crash.

“Ma’am? Ma’am, are you okay?” the waiter asked, regarding me as I gasped and clutched at my throat.

I turned my head in his direction and croaked, “I am not.” And then, I am sorry to say, I passed out.

When I came to, an older man wearing a very small banana hammock was crouched over me. I yelped as I realized my face was mere centimeters from his rug of chest hair.

He leaned back, his skin slick with sweat. “I am a doctor. I am vacationing at this hotel,” he said in a clipped accent of undecipherable origin. “The staff called me when you fainted. Are you all right?”

I was not all right, but alarmed, and very embarrassed. I sat up and brushed myself off, being careful not to meet the eyes of the waiter, who was hovering behind the doctor, undoubtedly concerned that I would die before I had a chance to pay for my ridiculously overpriced libations.

“I’m fine,” I told the doctor. “It was a panic attack. Apparently I’m prone to them.”

“If you’re losing consciousness, I’ll have to recommend you go to a hospital for evaluation as soon as possible. Is there someone I can call for you?”

“I can manage,” I informed him, though this was roughly seven hundred miles south of the truth.

“I’ll call you a taxi,” the waiter said.

“No,” I said.

“Really, it’s no trouble,” he insisted.

I gritted my teeth. “Please don’t. Just bring me the check.”

Ignoring the doctor’s questioning gaze, I paid my bill and hobbled down the beach back to the house.

Pain is funny, isn’t it, the way it’s impossible to accurately recall once it’s gone? When my incision wasn’t hurting too much, it was easy to believe I would be able to withstand the agony all the way to the bitter end. But now it was as though I’d been ripped open anew, and I wasn’t sure I could take another second of it, let alone an hour or a day. I served myself a bowl of cereal, but the thought of eating made me queasy, so I left it on the counter and went to the bedroom mirror. An ashen, exhausted woman regarded me warily from the glass. As I turned away, a sharp pain radiated through my groin and down my leg, making me wonder whether the cancer was spreading. I needed to see a doctor.

I limped over to Milagros’s. “Hello?” I called through her screen door. “Anyone home?”

She swung the door open. “Ay!” she cried when she saw me.

“Tell me about it,” I said. “I’m not feeling very good.”

“You look like you swallowed a swordfish, mija.”

“Funny, that’s what my stomach feels like right now. Do you know of a decent doctor?”

“Do I know a doctor! Do I know a doctor!” she said, hopping around. “I know all three doctors on the island, and I’ll even take you to my favorite. You let me drive you.”

“I can drive myself.”

She wagged her finger at me. “That wasn’t a request. There are people I love living around here, and I’m not giving you the chance to run one of them over on your way.”