Life and Other Near-Death Experiences(48)

“Um, it’s just that . . .”

“Cripes, Libs. Are you trying to give me a coronary?” Paul’s hands were on his hips, and his brow was furrowed; I could only imagine that if I were one of his minions, he’d have already tossed me out of the room.

Still I couldn’t say it. “Let’s go down to the beach,” I told him.

Glasses in hand, we walked to the shore. It was late afternoon, and the sun sagged beneath the clouds. The shore was all but deserted, and we stood at the water’s edge, letting the waves lap at our feet.

“You’re right. This isn’t just about Tom. I’m sick, Paul.”

My brother spun around toward me, but I didn’t meet his eye. “Like, in the head?”

“I’m not joking.”

“Libs, please don’t say what I think you’re about to say.”

“Okay. I don’t have cancer.”

Paul inhaled. “No, you do not.”

I kicked at the sand. “I’m sorry to say that I most certainly do.”

“And when were you going to tell me this?”

“You know. Shortly after I died.”

He threw his still-full glass into the ocean. “Dammit, Libby. Dammit. No wonder you’ve been so dodgy lately.”

“Sorry,” I said lamely.

He didn’t say anything for a solid two minutes. When he finally looked at me again, the pain etched on his face made me wish that rather than cancer, I’d been diagnosed with a fast-acting, flesh-eating bacteria that would swallow me on the spot. “What kind?”

“You’ve never heard of it.”

He reached into his pocket for his phone. “Spell it,” he said.

“Don’t look it up right now,” I pleaded, thinking about the images I had found online. But I spelled it for him anyway, and stood there, cheeks burning, while he stared at the small screen in his hand.

He took a deep breath and stuck his phone back in his pants pocket. “Okay. We can deal with this. I have a client at Mount Sinai, and he’ll know the best oncologists in the city. Or there’s the Mayo Clinic or Fred Hutchinson in Seattle. We can—”

“No,” I said.

“What do you mean, no?”

“Just . . . no.”

He looked as though he wanted to shake me. “Sorry, Libby, but this isn’t a choice you get to make.”

“Um, yes, yes, it is. It’s my life.”

“Do you hear yourself right now? You sound like a crazy person.”

“I shouldn’t have told you.”

“You are a crazy person, and it’s Tom’s fault,” he said, as much to himself as to me. “You just suffered a major trauma.”

“Two traumas,” I corrected. “And it’s not Tom’s fault. He did me a favor. Otherwise, I would have died never knowing the truth.” Even as I said this, I found myself wishing the exact opposite were true. Yes, I had Paul; but as much as I loved and relied on my brother, it was not the same as having my husband—my purported life partner—by my side when I needed him most. Tom had buoyed me. Really, he was probably the single reason I had stayed so optimistic all those years. His love was like a constantly streaming subconscious message that said, “See, Libby? Even though your mother died, things can and do work out for you.” Now my life raft had thrown me overboard and taken off in the opposite direction. Despite what I’d said to Paul, it would have been easier—so much easier—to leave the world without ever learning Tom’s truth.

I had begun crying, and in an instant, Paul was at my side, soothing me. “We can get through this, Libs. We will get through this.”

I carried on for a moment. Then I rubbed my eyes and looked at him. “I wasn’t kidding, Paul. I’m not going to get treatment.”

He took a step back and glared at me, at once ferocious. “Christ on a cracker, Libs! How selfish can you possibly be?”

“Don’t you think I’m allowed one selfish moment?”

“A moment, yes! An eternity? That’s some bullshit! You know that?” Now he was crying.

“Please stop that,” I said, even as salty tears ran into my mouth.

“I’m going to cry! Get over it!” he yelled. Then he began glancing around.

“What are you doing?” I asked, as if I didn’t already know he was searching for an escape route.

“Leaving,” he muttered.

“Leaving? What do you mean, leaving? You don’t even have any place to go.”

He’d already begun walking. “It’s called a hotel,” he called over his shoulder.

“And how are you going to get there?” I yelled, hands on my hips.

“With my two feet!”

But Paul never left, I thought as I watched him speed walk in the opposite direction.

“Paul!” I cried. “Come on! . . . Come back!”

He stopped and turned around, and for a split second, I thought he would change his mind. Then he hollered, “I’m going to give you a day to think about how incredibly stupid your little plan is. At that point, you and I will get on a plane and fly back to New York together.”

I shook my head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Fine.” He turned back around and began walking toward the road.