Life and Other Near-Death Experiences(58)

My voice caught. “Gracias, Milagros.”

She took my hand and squeezed it. “I’ll miss you. But”—she released my hand and flipped it over, then stuck her index finger in the center—“something here tells me we’ll meet again in a happy place.”

I peered down at my palm. “Really?”

Her eyes twinkled. “You tell me, mija.”



We returned the Jeep and took a shuttle to the ferry. Fingers entwined, we said little on the boat ride over, and even less on the drive to the airport. When we got there, Shiloh was able to use his pilot’s badge to go through security with me. I was collected—stoic, even—until we reached the gate. The agent had begun the boarding process, and I took one look at the line of passengers lined up for the jet bridge and fell into Shiloh’s arms.

“I can’t believe this is it.”

“Neither can I. Libby . . .” He was laughing and crying; we were both on the verge of crumpling. “You made me feel something that I didn’t even know it was possible to feel.”

Me, too, I thought. Me, too.

It took everything in me not to suggest we reunite when he visited his mother in New York, or propose that I return to Puerto Rico after treatment. Unkeepable pledges and pacts would cheapen what we had shared.

Instead, I put my hands around his neck and kissed him long and hard. Then I told him I would love him as long as I lived, because it was the truth.

“I meant what I said,” he told me, reaching into his pocket.

My stomach made a beeline for my bladder as I watched him pull out a small, unwrapped box.

He took one look at me and began to crack up. “Don’t freak! It’s not a ring.”

I managed a small laugh. “Thanks, I think.”

He put the box in my hand and told me not to open it until I was in the air. I said I wouldn’t.

The agent called for all passengers to board. Shiloh and I looked at each other: this was it. I kissed him one last time, trying to memorize what it was to have this with another person.

“Good-bye, Libby,” he said into my ear.

“Good-bye, Shiloh.”

I boarded the plane just before the doors to the jetway closed. Averting my eyes from the curious gazes of the people seated near me, I hunkered down in my seat, wiped my tears, and stared out the window. As the plane lifted into the sky, I shook the box lightly. The clunk-clunk-clunk of metal on cardboard confirmed it contained jewelry.

There’s something uniquely unnerving about accepting a gift from a person you love. Tom’s gifts were unfailingly practical: a fitness-tracking bracelet for my birthday, a planner and pen for Christmas. He knew exactly what I needed, to the point where it was almost like having my own personal shopper. Every once in a while, though, I would peek under the lid of a gift box and wish that instead of a pair of fleece gloves, I would find, say, a sexy bra set.

So as the plane lifted into the clouds, it was with no small amount of trepidation that I peeked beneath the lid of the box Shiloh had given me.

Nestled on a cotton pillow was a thumbprint-size star charm made of rose gold, dangling from a delicate chain. Shiloh had tucked a small slip of paper beneath the cotton.

   Libby,

   Thank you for the past month. It was one of the brightest of my life.

   Shiloh

The charm, which I rubbed between my fingers like a worry stone, was perfect. Shiloh’s note: perfect. Our affair and my vacation were, in the most roundabout way, absolutely perfect.

And now it was all over.





THIRTY


Chicago greeted me at the jet bridge with a gust of frozen air. I collected my bags from luggage claim, then zombie walked to the L train on the other side of the airport. Sitting on a hard bucket seat, I watched the train rise from beneath the ground until it was above the city. As leafless trees and buildings streamed past in a gray blur, I told myself, This is a mistake. I’d never been one for second-guessing, but then again, I’d never before been kicked in the teeth by cancer only to be sucker punched by my husband. Why had I come back to a place that was a massive symbol of all that had been, and perhaps still was, wrong with my life?

But a promise was a promise, and I’d made the same one to both Shiloh and Paul. So after I got off the train and let myself into my echoing, ice-cold apartment, I dialed Dr. Sanders’s office. When I gave the receptionist my name, she told me to hold. A few minutes later, Dr. Sanders came on the line.

“I wasn’t expecting to speak with you,” I said.

“I’m between appointments,” he said, as though this explained everything. “Elizabeth—”

“I believe we established that I go by Libby.”

“Libby,” he said, “have you sought medical care since, um, our last visit?”

I finished gnawing on a hangnail before answering. “Not really. That’s kind of why I’m calling. I’d like to find out what my options are.”

He exhaled. “I’m relieved to hear that. I’d like you to start by meeting with the team here. You’ll need a scan, blood tests, then an appointment with oncology . . .” He droned on like this for a while.

“Okay,” I said when he’d finally stopped talking. “When?”

“Really?” He sounded surprised, disappointed even, like he’d been geared up to make more of a case for himself. “I can get you in for testing as early as tomorrow.”