Life and Other Near-Death Experiences(46)

“That’s not nice, Libby.”

“Well, I’m not a very nice person.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Believe it, hombre.”

“Libby,” Shiloh said slowly, “I’m going to go now before this conversation takes a wrong turn. Please just consider what I’ve said.”

“Fine.”

“Thank you. I’ll talk to you soon, okay? Take care.” He did not say he planned to return to Vieques to see me—which was what I wanted to hear—so I didn’t respond. But instead of filling the silence, he said good-bye softly and hung up.

As silence filled the air, I stared at my phone. Seconds passed, then minutes, but instead of bursting into tears or throwing the phone into the sand, I just sat there. Numb.

Love guts you, then saunters away as the vultures swoop down to steal what’s left. I knew that. It had been mere weeks since Tom had reminded me.

But what had I done? I had run right back for another flaying—only to find myself surprised that once again, I was emptied and alone.





TWENTY-FOUR


“Milagros? Hello?” I called through the screen door, but my voice was met with silence. It had been two long days since I’d spoken with Shiloh, and I was hoping a Spanish lesson would help take my mind off our chafing conversation. Plus, though I wouldn’t admit this to anyone else, I was a bit bored. I’d eaten at most of the restaurants on the island, sorted an inordinate amount of shells, and walked the beach until my legs would take me no farther—which was not particularly far, given the way I was feeling. Could I really keep doing some version of the same for an unspecified amount of time? Especially if it meant doing it alone? I’d gone to Vieques on a solitary mission, but then Shiloh had come along, and being there without him felt all wrong.

Strangely, I missed work. Not the work itself, and not Jackie, obviously—but the structure to my day. The purpose. As I wandered from Milagros’s house back to my own, I wondered what my purpose was, now that I was unemployed and had a markedly shortened shelf life. Maybe I could finally learn to cook, or—

A sharp pain shot through my stomach, as if to remind me of my only purpose: to survive.

No, no, no, I argued with myself as the word survive resurfaced in my mind. That’s not right. It’s a biological urge at play, just like your urge to procreate with your nonfunctioning baby-making equipment. There is no surviving. There is only coming to terms with not surviving.

Just thinking about it felt exhausting, and when I let myself into the house I immediately lay on my bed and closed my eyes. I quickly fell into a deep slumber and emerged groggy and ravenous two hours later. I fixed myself a bowl of SpaghettiOs (in a moment of acute desperation, I’d purchased four cans at the mini-mart), then went to the sofa on the back porch, propped the bowl on my stomach, and sloppily spooned Os into my mouth. Through the glass doors, I watched a kiteboarder zigzag across the water. Something darted through my peripheral vision, and although it was probably nothing but a lizard or another kiteboarder, I glanced around for a large object with which to defend myself. But when I turned again to see what sinister criminal lurked beyond the glass, Paul was staring back at me.

Lord help me, I fell right off the sofa. Paul yanked at the patio door, but it was locked. The bemused expression on his face as he waited for me to scrape myself off the floor told me at once that he had no idea about the big C.

He still thought this was about Tom! Excellent: I could tell him on my own time. I pushed myself up, trying to pretend that doing so did not make me feel as though my lower abdomen had been impaled. Forcing my grimace into a smile, I unlocked the patio door.

“Is it really you?” I said, touching his arm lightly, because I was still in too much pain to give him a proper hug. “You actually flew to Puerto Rico?” Paul did not fly—not when his big-shot clients invited him to Aspen, not when investors asked him to go to Europe or Hong Kong, not when Charlie had to be in Los Angeles for work. Half the reason our father had moved to New England was so he’d be within driving distance of Paul. Yet Paul had gotten on a plane for me. I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or concerned. (Had I really sounded that awful? Probably, I conceded.) Mostly I was relieved. My brother was here to help me make sense of this catastrophe. It was unfortunate that he was not yet aware of said catastrophe.

“Of course it’s me,” he said, throwing his arms around me, oblivious to how much his hug hurt me. “And yes, I set foot on a giant death trap just for you.” Paul’s smile faded as he examined my face. “Libs, are you bleeding?” he asked.

I touched the skin beneath my lip, looked at my finger for a second, then stuck the orange-red digit in my mouth. “Nah, that’s tomato sauce.”

Paul did his own version of the disappearing neck trick. “Enough of the niceties. You, sister love, are in even worse shape than I was expecting.”

“I’m fine,” I protested, but no sooner had I said this than Shiloh appeared on the patio walkway.

I did a little jump: he was back! And just in time to meet my brother! I waved him in. “Paul, this is Shiloh,” I said as he walked into the sunroom. “Shiloh, Paul.”

“We’ve met, actually,” said Shiloh.

“You’ve—what?” I turned to Paul, who looked nonplussed.