Life and Other Near-Death Experiences(49)

“Paul! Paul!” I yelled, but he was already gone.





TWENTY-FIVE


I thought about calling Shiloh, but felt too dejected to have yet another conversation with someone who didn’t understand my stance on treatment. Instead, I took my horse pill of an antibiotic and proceeded to drink most of the remaining rum. When it became evident that no amount of alcohol was going to soothe the ache in my heart, I swallowed a sleeping pill and got into bed, still fully dressed.

I woke to the sound of pounding. It was dark out, and the glowing red numerals of the alarm clock informed me it was 5:43 in the morning.

Paul.

I bounded out of bed.

He stood at the door, still wearing the now-wrinkled button-down and thin wool pants he’d arrived in yesterday. His eyes were bloodshot, and his dark curls went every which way.

“You look about as hot as I feel right now,” I remarked.

He walked past me into the kitchen and flipped on the lights. “As bad as you feel, as a person with newfound knowledge of his sister’s cancer, I guarantee I’m feeling even more rotten.”

“Only one of us is dying,” I said, joining him in the kitchen.

He eyed me from the other side of the counter. “That’s inaccurate.”

“And how’s that?”

“You can’t die, Libby. You’re all I have left.”

“That’s not true. What about Charlie? The boys?”

He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the counter, and rubbed his eyes. Then he looked up at me. “You’re all of I have left of Mom. And don’t tell me I have Dad, too, because you know it’s not the same.”

“Oh.”

“So now that you see where I’m coming from, I have to ask again: Why would you do this?”

I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I asked Paul to come with me into my bedroom. After locating Y tu mama, I grabbed my laptop off the dresser and climbed on the bed, motioning for Paul to sit next to me. I put my laptop between us and slid the disc into the computer.

“See?” I said after we’d finished the movie. “Now do you understand?”

Paul pushed himself up and turned so we were facing each other. “What I see, dear sister, is a woman in crisis who has managed to confuse real life with Spanish-language cinema. I mean, I understand your initial impulse to leave Chicago behind. I’ve heard the first couple weeks after a person is diagnosed can be surreal—that you don’t feel like yourself. But you’re not Luisa, Libby.”

“No,” I agreed. “I’m not. But I have a reason for all of this.”

“And what would that be?” he scoffed.

“Before Mom died, she asked me to take care of you,” I told him.

He and I both smiled at the ridiculousness of our mother’s request. “She did?”

“Absurd, I know,” I told him. “Mom dying is the single worst thing that ever happened to me. Even all these years later, I feel like there’s a big hole carved out of me. When the doctor told me that I had this terrible cancer, all I could think about was how I was going to put you and Dad through that again. I don’t want to draw it out and make you suffer longer than necessary.”

“Oh, Libs,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

I took his hand, so like my own—it was one of the few physical characteristics we shared. I examined his long, squared-off fingers, then turned his hand over. He, too, had a long lifeline running across his palm. “No, I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have kept you in the dark. But you’ve seemed so happy lately, and I didn’t want to spoil it.”

“I am happy lately. Life with Charlie and the boys is better than I could have expected. But keeping your pain from me is the exact opposite of taking care of me.” He pursed his lips. “I mean, who else is going to tell you you’re looking at this all wrong? Feel free to correct me here, but you don’t even know what stage your cancer is yet.”

I thought about what Dr. Sanders had told me, and the studies I’d read online. “I’m pretty sure the two stages of my cancer are diagnosis and dying.”

“But you don’t know that for sure.”

“No.”

“Exactly. So, come on then. Let’s see it.”

“See what?” I said, already lifting my shirt so he could look at the battlefield that was my stomach.

He regarded the wound for a few seconds, then pulled my shirt back down and looked at me. “You’re going to be okay.”

I snorted. “Paul Ross, human MRI.”

He waved off my skepticism. “Now’s not a good time for you to die. It’s as simple as that.”

“I’m sorry that my disease comes at an inconvenient time for you.”

“I didn’t say it was inconvenient. It’s implausible.”

“Now who’s Pollyanna?”

“Stop it, Libs. Just—all I’m asking is that you consider doing this for me, okay?”

“Treatment?”

“Yes. Wherever you want. New York, Chicago, Puerto Rico—it doesn’t matter. With any doctor or hospital you want. I’ll cover anything your insurance doesn’t.”

After my unceremonious exit from work, I was fairly certain I no longer had insurance, which was why I had paid for the doctor’s visit in Vieques with my debit card. I thought it was best not to mention this to Paul for the time being. “You sound like Shiloh,” I told him.