Life and Other Near-Death Experiences(61)

The red car honked at us, long and loud. Paul glared at its driver before moving. “It’s getting ridiculous,” he huffed as he pulled our bags behind him. “I’m basically waiting for you to tell me that you’ve tapped into The Secret and aren’t doing chemo because you plan to manifest your own good health from the goodness of the universe.”

“That would require far more optimism than I have at my disposal right now, Paulypoo,” I said, calling him the nickname I used to piss him off when we were kids.

“Just know that Paulypoo is not above having you committed, dear sis,” he said without so much as a hint of humor.



We checked into a generic hotel in a beige suburb not far from the airport. Paul only reserved one room because, as he told me, “I knew you wouldn’t want to be alone,” which was accurate. After settling in and freshening up, we drove into Detroit to a barbecue place Paul’s coworker had recommended.

The food was good, I guess; I didn’t much feel like eating.

Rather than continuing to prod me about my health, Paul found a fresh wound to poke at.

“You haven’t spoken to Shiloh once since you got back to the mainland, have you?”

“And what makes you say that?”

He extended his hand. “Hi, I’m your twin brother. Have we met?”

I didn’t shake it. “Perhaps we should dine in silence. You can scan my mind while I try to remember that deep in that dark heart of yours, you really do love me.”

“I’m surprised you fell so hard,” he said, ignoring my snark. “I really thought it was just a fling.”

“It was just a fling,” I said. Then I added morosely, “Unfortunately, I love him.”

“I know you do, you hopeless sap. I’ve gotta give it to you: I was almost convinced you would stay in Puerto Rico for him. He’s a nice guy, but I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Yeah.” I reached for the star around my neck.

“Ooh, shiny!” Paul said, noticing the necklace for the first time. “From him?”

“Yeah.”

He smiled wistfully. “It doesn’t have to be over, you know.”

“I know,” I said, though in truth, I knew no such thing.

Paul got up and moved his chair to the side of the table closest to me, then put a hand on my back. “It doesn’t have to be over,” he repeated. “Treatment won’t last forever.”

“It’s meant to be over. We barely know each other, and I have to focus on getting better.”

He squeezed my shoulder lightly. “That’s the Libby I know and love. Are you feeling better about Tom?”

“Tom who?”

“I take it you still haven’t told him.”

“Never will.”

“I’m not going to tell you what to do, but he’ll find out at some point. You might want to be the one to deliver the message.”

I pointed my fork at him. “I’ve delivered all of the messages I have for Tom.”

“You don’t feel bad for him? Just a little?”

As I moved the chicken on my plate around in small circles, I thought of an evening earlier in the year, probably no more than a few weeks before I first discovered the lump in my stomach. I’d taken a long shower, slathered my limbs with lotion, and draped myself in a short silk robe. I went to our bedroom, where Tom was lying on the bed. A book was propped on his stomach and he was staring blankly at the wall opposite the bed. He didn’t see me at first, so I stood in the doorway, admiring the perfect slope of his nose, the flat plane of his torso, and the way his long lashes stood out in the lamplight. How incredibly lucky I am, I thought. As familiar as my husband was, the very sight of him still made my skin prickle with pleasure. And I told myself, as I had so many other times, that God had given me him to right the loss of my mother.

On this particular evening, I’d crawled next to him and curled up in the crook of his arm. I ran my foot up and down his leg. As I was about to reach into his boxer shorts, he kissed the top of my head. “Love you, Libby,” he said. Then he picked up his book and began to read again.

Yet again, I used my optimism eraser to rub out all signs of doubt that night. I shouldn’t be offended. So he wasn’t in the mood at that particular moment. So what? He was a great husband, and when we did have sex, it was pretty good. I couldn’t expect perfection, now could I?

“No, I don’t feel bad for him,” I told Paul. “Frankly, I wish that it had been him diagnosed with cancer. I wish he’d died.” My voice was rising, and I knew the people next to us were trying not to stare; they probably assumed Paul and I were a couple quarreling. So be it. “Then I could have gone on believing that I had been loved fully and completely. Now I know that he wasn’t capable of loving me all the way, not in the way that I needed.” I sucked in my breath sharply.

Paul looked at me tenderly. “You’re right. You shouldn’t feel bad for him.”

“Thank you,” I said quietly. “Maybe one day I’ll get over him. I’d certainly like to. Right now I just wish he’d sign the fricking apartment papers.”

“Oh, he will,” he said, then took a sip of his wine. “If I have to hire a henchman to hold the pen in his hand and scribble his signature, he’ll sign it.”