Life and Other Near-Death Experiences(54)

I sighed. This wasn’t going to go over well with Tom. “Won’t be a problem, Raj.”



On the one hand, I could make what was left of my life a whole lot easier by faking Tom’s signature, which I could practically do in my sleep. On the other . . . I didn’t really want to make my karmic load any heavier by deceiving Tom about the sale. I decided to consult Milagros.

“Do you believe in revenge?” I asked her.

We were walking down the side of road. Given my run-in with the yellow truck, I wasn’t thrilled to be on foot on a skinny stretch of grass alongside an almost equally narrow swath of asphalt, but Milagros said she had exhausted her beach vocabulary and it was time to teach me something different before I left.

“La venganza?” she said. “Como un payback?”

I replied with my new favorite phrase: “Mas o menos.” More or less. “Like, when your husband cheated on you, didn’t you want to stick it to him?”

She looked at me through narrowed eyes. “How could I stick him when he was sticking someone else?”

I giggled.

“Listen,” she said, “the universe takes care of that. Look at my husband—poor bastard drowned.”

I thought it was her one true love who had drowned, but perhaps he and the cheater were one and the same. Anyway, I’d come to see that Milagros’s past was a parable; taking any of her stories as a literal interpretation meant you would miss the point.

“Don’t bunch your panties up about la venganza. Especially if we’re talking about your husband.”

“Ex.”

“That’s what I said.” She laughed.

I told her about the apartment—how I was concerned that Tom wouldn’t sign the papers, and I was considering forging his signature.

“Y?” she said. “There’s something else.”

I had to tell her; I should have weeks before. “I have cancer,” I said quietly, bracing myself for a slew of questions.

But Milagros just nodded. “Your ex doesn’t know.”

“No.”

“Ay.” She bit her bottom lip and kept walking. “I’m sorry to hear about your health, mija,” she said after a while. “But give him a chance to make the right choice about the apartment.”

I thought about house hunting with Tom all those years ago. I had wanted to buy a split-level apartment in a limestone building in Logan Square. Tom argued that its turn-of-the-last-century quirks—a small kitchen, bedroom closets constructed in corners, the narrow staircase connecting the first floor to the garden level—would make it hard to resell; and besides, it was too far from downtown. This was all probably true, but it felt like a home to me, and I had loved it. Then we went to see the apartment we ultimately bought, which was located on the border of Bucktown and Wicker Park. Though I couldn’t deny that it had lovely light and a layout ideal for entertaining, it seemed sterile. Tom argued that it was simply because the building was new construction. What’s more, it was mere blocks from Jess and O’Reilly’s place, and in a rapidly appreciating, if overgentrifying, neighborhood that was close to almost everything. I did not relent because of these points, but because Tom was in love with it and I was in love with him, and I wanted him to be happy. It was quite possible that he would not willingly part with that happiness.

“Even if giving him the choice may leave me in a bad situation?” I asked Milagros.

“Si. Otherwise, you are just as bad as him. Now where were we?”

“You were teaching me the word for—” A four-wheeler whizzed by and I jumped back, pulling Milagros with me. She stumbled, then leaned into me, sending us both tumbling to the ground.

“—cars,” I said as a searing pain shot through my stomach.

Milagros rolled off me and pushed herself up. “New phrase: cuidao con el carro. Be careful of the car!”

“I’m sorry, Milagros. Better careful than crippled?” I said sheepishly, and stood up.

“Tell that to my hip,” she said, accepting my outstretched hand. “Now come on. We’re not done with your lesson.”



I called Tom shortly after we returned. “I’m giving you the chance to make the right choice.”

“Um, hi,” he said. “Surprised to hear from you.”

“Don’t be. I’m calling because I’ve accepted an offer on the apartment. I need you to sign the paperwork.”

“You don’t mean that.”

I hopped off the counter and opened the fridge. Unless I wanted to attempt to survive on eggs and guava juice, it was time to restock. “I assure you that I do, Tom. I really do.”

“Libby, don’t take this the wrong way, but I really do think you should see someone. My therapist said this would be as hard for you as it is for me. Maybe harder.”

“Did he? How interesting,” I said, shutting the fridge.

“She,” he corrected.

“Well, she is right. This is hard for me. There’s a lot of stuff going on, and I’m in no mood to explain it to you.”

“Like you losing your job?” he asked. “I’m guessing Jackie didn’t sign off on a monthlong vacation.”

I moved on to the cupboard, whose contents were as dismal as the fridge’s. “I did not lose my job, Tom. I quit.”