Don’t Make Me Turn This Life Around by Pagán, Camille (top novels of all time txt) 📗

and delight the girls had talked Milagros’ ear off over drinks; then the six of us had gone out to a nearby restaurant for dinner, during which no one had stared at the television (because there hadn’t been one, but all the same). I’d been so tired—and yes, relieved that the day had gone well—when we finally crawled between the sheets that I’d immediately fallen asleep, negating any worries about whether Shiloh would attempt to be amorous.

But even more than my relief over finally having a calm and uneventful evening, I was happy because today was the day: exactly ten years earlier, Dr. Malone’s predecessor had informed me that the war being waged inside of me had been won.

“Thank you for remembering,” I said, smiling back at him.

“No need to thank me,” he said, touching my arm gently. “Do you remember the doctor’s office?”

Of course I did—we’d jumped up and down, crying and kissing like we’d just won the jackpot (which I supposed we had). On the ride from Manhattan to New Jersey, where we lived at the time, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other; as soon as we paid the sitter and made sure the girls were still napping, we’d stripped down in the middle of the living room and gone at it in a way that still made me blush, even all these years later. That time, I hadn’t had to tell myself to feel alive or be grateful. I just was.

“That was one of the best days of my life,” I told Shiloh.

“Mine, too. But let’s make today rival it. I know we have the bay trip planned for tonight, but what else do you want to do?”

“Oh, gosh,” I said, because I hadn’t actually put much thought into it. “How about the black-sand beach if the weather’s good, and maybe lunch at El Chinchorro?” I said, referring to our favorite restaurant in Vieques.

“Sounds perfect,” he said, bending to kiss me softly.

My mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, and my eyes were still hazy with sleep; my hair, no doubt, was sticking up in every which direction. But I forgot about all that as Shiloh’s lips met mine.

“I love you,” I murmured.

“I love you, too,” he said. “So—”

“I was here first!”

“But I really have to go!”

The girls were on the other side of our door, bickering about who was going to use the bathroom.

“I’ll take care of it,” Shiloh said before I could spring out of bed. “Relax, go for a walk if you want. Today is for you.”

“Thank you,” I said again, feeling awash with appreciation. Who cared if we weren’t having sex? Okay—I did. But he was being so loving and thoughtful that it seemed to me I’d gotten it all wrong. We weren’t unraveling. We’d just needed a break. I’d needed a break. And now that I was getting one, our family was finally starting to gel again.

I threw some clothes on and slipped out the door before Isa or Charlotte could spot me and make me play judge in the ongoing trial that was their relationship. Instead of heading to the beach, though, I hoisted myself into the hammock strung between a pair of palm trees. The breeze was strong, and I could hear the waves slapping against the shore. Above me, a couple of blackbirds were twittering back and forth, and I’d just been wondering if they, like my daughters, were bickering but in a better-sounding language, when I suddenly remembered something I must have pushed into the distant corners of my memory.

All these years, I’d only ever focused on my initial response to being declared cancer free—especially since the oncologist I’d initially seen had predicted I’d have six months, if that, to live. But now it occurred to me that my euphoria had actually worn off pretty quickly after getting an all clear. In fact, after the heady rush of those first few days, I’d spent the next couple of months feeling . . . not unlike I’d been feeling lately, actually.

Underwhelmed. Anxious. And so very, very tired.

At the time, I’d been able to chalk it up to having two very active toddlers and a new business to tend to. Moreover, I was sapped from undergoing treatment on and off for nearly two years. But in retrospect, it cut deeper than that. Surviving is inherently performative; not only do people want to see how you’ll react to this wonderful thing that’s just happened to you, they want to be a part of your good luck—enhance it, even, by reminding you that it could have turned out oh so differently. I could barely buy toilet paper without bumping into an acquaintance who felt the need to inquire about my health—and before I’d even managed to complete a sentence, proceed to tell me (insert sad face here) how their cousin’s best friend’s ex-girlfriend had recently had a recurrence or was in “a better place”—never mind that if this alleged place was so much better, they themselves would dispense with seat belts and health insurance.

I know how great I have it, I wanted to interrupt. Please don’t remind me that it could all go away in a second. I learned that earlier than any person should ever have to.

But they were hurting, too, so I smiled and wished their loved ones well . . . and walked away feeling like a little more of my hope had just been stolen from me.

Still, it wasn’t long before my blues gave way to blue skies and my old sunny outlook. And though I had seen a social worker a few times, I hadn’t done much of anything other than to just keep reminding myself of who I was—a mother, a wife, a survivor.

An optimist, just like my mother before me.

The hammock rocked gently as I stared at the sky, which was framed by palm trees. For a second, but only a second, I wondered what I would do if reminding myself wasn’t enough.