Life and Other Near-Death Experiences(51)

Paul must have decided Shiloh’s angle was a good one, because after a minute he said, “You’re right. One thing at a time.”



After lunch we took a trio of kayaks out. The sea was still, and Shiloh and Paul easily paddled several hundred yards out, but I lingered near the shore. I had agreed to treatment, yet couldn’t envision it; when I tried to picture myself propped up in a pastel pleather recliner, the steady drip of an IV unloading into my veins, it was my mother’s face, not my own, that stared back at me.

I shook my head, then looked down at the sea, trying to encourage my mind’s eye to envision some positive aspect of my post-Vieques existence, but the glassy green water held no inspiration. The fact that I could not visualize the alleged next phase of my life felt like further proof that Paul’s reasoning was wishful thinking.

I wasn’t sure how long I had been floating there when Paul circled back around. “Have you spoken to Tom about your health?” he asked as the nose of his kayak gently bumped the side of my own.

“No,” I said, watching a school of silvery minnows pass between us, then disappear into darker depths.

“Do you plan to?”

“No. But if you want to invite him to my funeral, I guess you can. I would prefer that you seat him at the back.”

Paul grimaced. “I really wish you’d stop talking like that.”

“Sorry.”

His kayak began drifting backward, and he lifted his oar and latched it to the side of my boat, linking us together. “Do you miss him?”

I shook my head. “Not at all.”

I don’t, I told myself, but this was not even remotely true. I missed the way Tom pulled me into him at night, our bodies curved against each other like Russian nesting dolls. I missed how he would tuck a stray curl behind my ear while he was in the middle of talking to me. I missed the feeling of belonging to him, and believing that he, too, belonged to me.

“You’ll love again,” said Paul.

“Maybe,” I said, looking over my shoulder at Shiloh, who was paddling in the distance.

“Is it weird?” Paul asked. “Being with someone else so soon? Not that I think it’s a bad thing, but . . . you two seem awfully cozy. I hope it doesn’t make things harder for you.”

“It won’t.”

He gave me a look.

“What?”

“Careful, Libs,” he said, looking again at Shiloh. “I like the guy, but he’s not worth your life.”

“Trust me, he would be the first to agree with you. Despite his ‘one thing at a time’ shtick, he’s constantly on me about getting out of here and going to see a specialist.”

“Huh,” said Paul, in a way that said he was unconvinced. “Anyway, enough about Shiloh. The only person we need to focus on right now, Libs, is you.”



On the boat ride back, Shiloh put his arm gently around my waist, and I laid my head on his shoulder, which is how we remained until we arrived at the marina in Vieques. Maybe Shiloh is clouding my vision, I thought. Maybe I should never have gone to dinner with him; then I wouldn’t have fallen for him, and Paul couldn’t have contacted him to find me, and I would’ve had more time to plan my final days without interference. This was all possible, but as the boat bumped up against the dock, dislodging my torso from Shiloh’s, I felt oddly grateful that it hadn’t worked out any other way.





TWENTY-SIX


“Sing to me, Libby Lou.”

“What song, Mama?”

“Our song, Libby,” she said, attempting to smile as she recited her well-rehearsed line. There was only one option. But Paul and I always asked, and on that day, as ever, she responded, “You Are My Sunshine.’”

She had about a week to live, but I didn’t know it at the time. She had been in and out of consciousness for days. When she was awake, she mostly warbled nonsense. But when she was lucid, I snatched up that fool’s gold like it would buy me forever, assuring myself that she was going to pull through. I put my hand over hers and sang as though time was a suggestion, and the end a choice.

You are my sunshine, Mama, I thought as I watched her eyes flutter beneath pale lavender lids. As long as I could remember, she’d sung the song to Paul and me before bed. After cancer robbed her of her strength, dictating that she could no longer live at home, let alone sing at our bedroom doors at night, Paul and I sang our version to her instead. “Please don’t take my sunshine away” became “More and more every day”; the verses about waking up and finding the love gone were omitted entirely. If my mother noticed our feeble attempts to lighten the tune, she didn’t mention it. She just asked us to sing it one more time.

After she passed, I swore I would never sing that song again. It was a ruse: death and doom swaddled in a lullaby. As an adult, I once fled my cousin’s daughter’s nursery after coming upon a teddy bear playing the tune. Some toy maker had sewn the music box into the beady-eyed animal, undoubtedly aware that the child who received the bear would one day learn the song her toy played was about losing the best person you ever had.

But darn if it wasn’t the first thing that popped into my head the morning Paul was set to return to New York. I hummed a few bars before I realized what I was doing, then turned on the radio to drown my internal melody with the bright, clangy sounds of salsa.