Life and Other Near-Death Experiences(55)

“Come on.”

“I’m serious.”

He was silent for a moment. “So you’re selling the apartment because you need cash?”

“Actually, I was planning on donating the money from the sale to charity.” If I really did go through with treatment, I would soon require my own charitable fund. But now wasn’t the time to divulge this.

“What?” He sounded panicked. “All of it?”

I would have to go out for food, I realized, and slipped on my sandals. “The down payment was never yours. It was never mine, either. It belonged to my mother. And you know I paid for the bulk of the mortgage myself.”

“I suppose that’s true, but sheesh, Libby, don’t you think you should have run your plans past me, given that it’s my home, too? I know I hurt you, and I wish to God I hadn’t. But you can’t just act like we haven’t spent the past eighteen years together.”

I didn’t respond.

“I wish you would have at least let me stay at the apartment while you went off gallivanting in the Caribbean,” he added.

Gallivanting. How very droll were the workings of his mind. “Tom, I’m sure you don’t believe me, but I am sorry. Getting out of Chicago seemed like my only option. But you’re an intelligent person. You’re gainfully employed. I’m sure you can figure it out from here,” I said as I grabbed my keys from the hook near the door.

“Can I?” He was not being sarcastic. “We’ve always done everything together. I miss you.”

Maybe that was why Tom had been making preposterous comments about wanting our marriage to work. We really had done everything together, and he didn’t know how to figure out what to do without me. I sort of wanted to help him, if only out of habit.

“Tom, I miss the ‘you’ who didn’t break my heart,” I said as I locked the front door behind me. “I’ll have the papers sent to O’Reilly’s. Please keep an eye out for them.”

“I’m not signing. I think you’re making a rash decision, and it’s because of me. I can’t let you do this while you’re in a state of shock.”

If only he knew, I thought as I climbed into the Jeep. “There is no ‘letting me,’ Tom. Let go,” I told him. “Tell Jess that I said hello, and that I’m doing fine.”

He didn’t hang up, and neither did I. “Will I ever see you again?” he asked after a while.

“I don’t know.” Unlike the apartment sale, a legal divorce would probably require face time with Tom. The sting of his betrayal was wearing off, though, and it was not unfeasible that I would find it in myself to fully forgive him before we were in the same room again.

“I’m sorry, Libby,” he said. “I didn’t mean to ruin your life.”

The Jeep faced the sea; through the windshield, I watched white-topped waves crest over a thin strip of sand. “Tom, I’m sure you probably won’t believe me, or even understand what I mean by this, but you didn’t ruin my life.” I started the engine. “The truth is, you gave it back to me.”





TWENTY-EIGHT


I bought two one-way tickets: one from San Juan to Chicago, where I would spend a week settling the apartment sale; another from Chicago to New York, where, if all went according to Paul’s plan, I would immediately offer my services as a human guinea pig.

“I don’t want to do this,” I told Shiloh, who was sitting next to me in a tiny café that offered Internet access.

“By ‘this,’ do you mean treatment? Or leaving Puerto Rico?”

“Both,” I said, and clicked the Purchase button for the first fare.

“What do you have to lose?”

Through the window, palm trees danced in the breeze. “Paradise,” I said. Thinking of the many things that would soon be foisted upon me—medication, attention, sympathy—I added, “Control.”

Shiloh drained the contents of his espresso cup. “Control’s an illusion. You know that.”

“Do I?” I said, staring at the Buy Now icon that would enable me to fly from one cold, overpopulated city to another. I clicked it, then turned away from the computer screen. “I mean, I’m not trying to broker world peace here, but I would like to think I have some say over what happens to my brief and newly eventful life.”

“If you say so, cutie.” He got up from his seat and stood behind me, gently running his fingers through my hair. I leaned my head back, wishing there were a way to bottle the relaxed feeling running through my body. “My offer stands. I would be happy to come with you for a few months.”

“You have a life here, wackadoo.”

“Right. My glamorous bachelor pad. My drinking buddies. My family—oh wait. My closest relative lives hours from my apartment.”

“But you just got cleared to fly again,” I protested. “You’ve been itching to get back in the air.”

“And I plan to.” He kissed me lightly. “Besides, you know I don’t operate like that. I like to do what I want, and what I want is to be with you a little longer.”

I was flattered, but it still seemed like an unviable option. “What happens if you and I don’t do so well when we’re farther from the equator, and you discover you just wasted several months of your life with the wrong woman?”