Life and Other Near-Death Experiences(70)

Naturally, my father assumed my mewling (which began before he even answered the line) was on account of Tom. And then I had to correct him with three words he had undoubtedly prayed he would never have to hear again:

I have cancer.

Let’s be honest: it was awful, and that was my fault. My father cried, and I cried some more. When we got through the worst of it, he asked questions I could not answer, and I had to explain why I couldn’t answer them, which made me feel not unlike someone who had run over a basket of puppies.

“What can I do to help you through this, Libby Lou?” he asked, and even though I’d just calmed down, a strangled sound escaped my mouth. I thought of my father wiping my mother’s brow with a cool washcloth as she lay lifelessly in bed. He had already been through enough, which is what I told him.

“Nonsense,” he said. “It’s not your job to shield me. Being your father means seeing you through this and anything else you need help with. That is the single most important thing to me in this world. Let me at least do that for you.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, for what was probably the thirteenth time.

“The only thing you should be sorry about is apologizing again.”

“So I probably shouldn’t apologize for that.”

“Don’t even think about it.” He laughed. Then I heard him sigh deeply. “So this is why you took off to Puerto Rico.”

“Yeah.”

I could almost see him nodding. “That does make some sense.”

I sniffed. “Try explaining that to Paul.”

“Well, your brother’s not wrong for wanting you to get help immediately.”

“I know.”

“So, kiddo, tell me something good. How was the trip?”

“It was wonderful,” I said without hesitation. I told him about the beach house, and Milagros, and even a little about Shiloh, minus the heady affair and brush with death parts.

“You see the horses?” he asked.

“Yes. And the phosphorescent bay. You were right—it was amazing. A once-in-a-lifetime experience.” I felt a pang of regret for not snapping more than a few pictures. “Dad, how long were you and Mom there?”

He said it had been a week, maybe ten days; he couldn’t recall. “I do remember one thing well. Hang on a second. I’m going to e-mail you something.”

I switched modes on my phone. After a moment, an e-mail from my father popped up in my in-box. I opened it, and centimeter-by-centimeter, a scanned photo of my mother appeared on the screen. She was standing on the beach in a yellow bathing suit, the swell of her belly outlined against the sea. Her hands were overflowing with shells and she was laughing.

“I found it while I was cleaning out some boxes in the attic a few weeks ago. I meant to send it to you last week,” my father explained.

“It’s incredible, Dad. Thank you. I didn’t realize you and Mom went to Vieques while she was pregnant with us.”

“She was maybe four or five months along, though everyone thought she was about to give birth at any moment. She was so tiny, and there were two of you in there.”

“Thank you,” I repeated. “I can’t tell you how much the picture means to me.”

“I’m glad you like it. You remind me so much of your mama, kiddo.”

A lump formed in my throat. I hadn’t heard anyone refer to her as “mama” in years. “It’s Paul who looks like her,” I said.

“True, but who do you think you get your sunny outlook from? You’re just like her that way.”

I shook my head, thinking of how similar Paul and I had been for the first decade of our lives. It was only after our mother got sick that he’d become so cynical, and I’d begun denying the existence of any and all bad things. “I wasn’t really like that until everything happened,” I said.

“Not true, kiddo. Not true at all. That’s how you came out of the womb. Paul was colicky, but you? You just lay there cooing. We used to joke that you were singing to Paul to calm him down.”

“So I didn’t . . .” I wasn’t sure how to say it. “I didn’t get all weird and chipper because of Mom’s cancer?”

“Oh, gosh, no. Not at all. Do you not remember much of your childhood before that? I suppose that’s normal. That grief counselor I used to see once told me that many of your memories would be formed around that one awful year. But there was—” My father blew his nose into a tissue and continued. “There is so much more to our family. We had great times together. And you and your mom staying positive throughout the not-great times was one of the few things that kept me going. I just don’t think I could have handled it if she hadn’t believed, deep down, that everything was going to be okay.”

“But she died,” I said softly.

“Yes, she did. You know what they say: no one makes it out of life alive. But she was still right.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Libby, you and Paul are happy, functioning people who have lived, and loved, and made the world a little bit better by being in it. That was your mama’s exact definition of okay.”

I could feel the sobs coming on. “Thanks, Dad. I needed to hear that.”

“You’re so welcome, Libby Lou. I love you.”