Life and Other Near-Death Experiences(60)

Jess must have been taking it easy on her beloved Botox injections, because the line in her forehead deepened at least half a centimeter. “You’re not going to tell him? Even after everything, he is your husband.”

I sighed. “Was, Jess. Tom was my husband. I’m not exactly brimming with self-knowledge right now, but I know enough to say with certainty that I don’t want him involved with anything relating to my health status. So would you mind helping me with this one thing?”

She nodded.

“Thank you.” I slid off my seat and gave her an enormous hug.

“Are you hugging me right now, Libby Miller?”

“I might be, but don’t get too used to it.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m going to New York for a while.”

“For treatment?”

“Something like that.”

She laughed and planted a kiss on my cheek. “Come back sooner this time, okay? And when I call you, pick up the phone.”

I smiled. “I’ll do my best.”



As I was falling asleep that night, a strange sensation overcame me. I was awake, but my body was paralyzed; it was almost as though I were encased in liquid glass, unable to move—not even to open my eyes. My chest was heavy, my breathing labored, and panic set in. The cancer’s spreading, I thought to myself. It had been more than a month since diagnosis, and I had already been fairly sure malignant cells were swimming through my body, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. I did not need one of Dr. Sanders’s fancy tests to tell me time was running out.

Then a peaceful feeling passed over me. I could have been dreaming, but it felt as though there was a cool, steady hand stroking my forehead.

As quick as it came on, the paralysis was gone. I sat straight up and reached for my phone on the bedside table, knowing what had to be done next.





THIRTY-ONE


I signed the real estate papers early, and had a notary sign a letter stating that Raj had the power to make any outstanding decisions on my behalf. Either Tom or I had to be present for the closing, but I was hopeful that Jess, newly aware of my predicament, would somehow be able to convince Tom to attend. The apartment sale would net nearly twice the amount I’d inherited from my mother’s life insurance.

It was a lot of money, at least to me. And yet the entire sum could be erased with one medical treatment, and it could turn out that said medical treatment did not make a lick of difference in my survival. I hated to even think about it.

I called Paul on the way home from Raj’s office. “Well?” he said.

“Well, what?” I said, knowing precisely what he meant.

“Have you called your doctor yet?”

“He’s not my doctor, and yes, I did call him.”

“So what did he say about treatment?”

“He said you and I should go to Detroit together.”

“No, he did not.”

“Okay, he didn’t exactly say that. But since you’ve gotten over your fear of flying—”

“Gotten over? More like developed urinary incontinence and a consortium of ulcers.”

“Even so, you got on a plane. Twice, in fact. So . . . would you consider coming with me to visit Mom’s grave? It’s been years.”

He was quiet for a minute. “It has been a long time,” he conceded. “I’m not exactly itching to join you, but you knew when you called that I wouldn’t say no.”

This was true. “It’ll be good for you,” I told him. “For us.”

“What would be good for us would be for you to get your butt in treatment. As in yesterday. Detroit can wait until you’re done.”

“It can’t, and I’m going either way. Before a single needle touches my body. It would mean a lot if you came with me.”

“What happened to the lovely and compliant sister who was under my sway not one whole week ago?”

“She’s still here, Paul. Mostly. And she needs you.”

“You’re the worst, Libs. The absolute worst. Call me tonight so we can coordinate flights.”

I sighed with relief. In spite of my threats, there was no way I was doing this without him.



Two days later, I touched down in Detroit, where Paul was waiting for me at the rental-car desk. As he embraced me, he said, “Sweet, sweet Libs. Have you slept since we last spoke?”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to judge, chunks,” I said, attempting—and failing—to find extra flesh on his side to pinch. “What are you up to now, seven percent body fat?”

He took my suitcase from me. “Don’t try to change the subject.”

“All I’ve been doing is sleeping,” I said, thinking of the twelve hours I logged the night before. “It’s like I’m falling into a coma at an incredibly slow speed.”

“And what does your doctor say about that?” he asked as we walked through a set of automatic doors to the parking lot where our car was waiting.

I shrugged.

Paul stopped in the middle of the walkway connecting the airport to the parking lot and stared at me.

“Move before you get run over,” I said as a small red car sped at us.

Still staring, he didn’t budge. “You’re really starting to freak me out. Don’t you think exhaustion is something to talk to the doctor about, given the circumstances?”