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

as teens—he remained one of my closest friends. Honesty aside, the only thing that had really been missing between us was sexual chemistry.

Stop it right now, I ordered myself. Had my mother moped about the overproducing disease spores that robbed her of her chance to see her children reach adulthood? No, she had not. She had acted like her cancer and the treatment that was supposed to save her but ultimately sapped her body’s ability to fight were no more important than the weather—worth an occasional remark, but certainly not something to waste time and energy focusing on. Meanwhile, my circumstances were approximately four thousand times better than hers had been. I was free of cancer and full of life. And didn’t Shiloh show me how much he cared every single day?

I waited until he began snoring lightly to slip out of bed and throw on my robe. I didn’t bother turning on the lights as I padded into the kitchen, where my sparkling wine was on the counter where I’d left it. Every relationship went through lulls, I told myself as I took a sip. If anything, I should have been cheering about having already enjoyed thirteen passionate years with my husband. Sure, the girls had acted like I was either a maid or invisible all afternoon. But it wasn’t news to me that having a family wasn’t always kittens and roses.

Tiny beads of air exploded at the back of my throat as I tossed back what was left in the glass, making my eyes water. The byproduct of carbon dioxide: that’s all those pesky tears were. Because I was alive and well, and I was not about to cry over that.

“I love my life,” I said aloud as I raised my glass to the night sky, which was winking at me through the kitchen window. And I did. I did.

I did.

THREE

When I awoke the next morning, Shiloh had already left for work. He often took off before the rest of us were up in order to try to beat the traffic, but I had to wonder if this time it was an attempt to avoid discussing what had happened the night before. Just as well; it wasn’t like asking him if he was still attracted to me was going to put the zing back in his thing. More likely it would have the opposite effect. Anyway, it was a new day—another chance to feel like myself again.

Isa was still sleeping, but I found Charlotte sitting on the kitchen counter with a bowl of cereal on one side of her and a vial of insulin on the other. Her shirt was hiked up, and she was sinking a needle into the fold of skin she’d grabbed with her free hand. What a champ—she didn’t even flinch anymore.

“Hey, kiddo. You calculated how much you need?” I said, trying to sound casual as I ruffled her hair. As we’d learned over the past year, managing blood sugar was more complicated than just running the numbers. Insulin-to-carb ratios were key, but we also had to figure out how Charlotte’s body reacted to heat, physical activity, and even certain foods (pizza, in particular, was a land mine, which she’d discovered one evening when her blood sugar wouldn’t come down).

“Yes, Mom. Not that I want to think about it, but it’s been, like, a year. I know how to count carbs. And yes, I put it in the app,” she said, referring to the tracking log she kept on her phone. She held the needle out to me. At least I wasn’t so annoying that I’d been banned from menial tasks.

“Great,” I said cheerfully, ever cognizant of the fact that Charlotte was influenced by my attitude whether she realized it or not. I deposited the needle into the medical waste box next to the trash can. “You having some protein, too?”

“Milk has protein in it.”

Not as much as her dietitian recommended. “Let me make you a crispy egg,” I said.

“Gross. No.”

Up until a few months ago, “crispy eggs,” as she used to call my fried eggs, were her favorite. “Then make sure you track your sugars carefully,” I said, switching on the coffee maker. “I’m going into the office this morning and having lunch with Uncle Paul. But I’ll be home by five. Can you send me updates every two hours?”

She shrugged, which was not the reassurance I’d been aiming for. “I’ll probably go over to LaToya’s to see if she wants to play soccer. Or maybe Cecelia’s.”

“Why don’t you hang out with Isa?”

Charlotte looked at me like I’d just suggested she jog down the middle of the highway.

I sighed. “Fine, but please text me to let me know where you’re at and when you leave—and tell your sister to do the same. Bring your insulin and meter, okay?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she said, shoveling cereal into her mouth.

“Oh, and Char?”

She stopped and glanced up at me, looking so much like the sweet, funny girl she’d always been that I almost blurted out my test results. But all these years, I’d been careful not to make too much of a big deal about my having had cancer, as I knew all too well how awful it was to worry about your mother dying. Yesterday’s appointment was a conversation that was best dressed up in casual clothing and trotted out to both girls at the same time.

“Papi should be home by five thirty, so let’s all have dinner tonight,” I said. “Sixish?”

“Whatevs.” She hopped off the counter. “See you later.”

“Already looking forward to it. Love you,” I called.

I waited for her to say it back, but then the front door slammed and she was gone.

“Morning, Libby!” Rupi, my operations manager and all-around MVP, had popped up from behind her computer monitor like a Muppet.

“Morning!” I said, hoping I sounded more chipper than I felt; after all, I was the boss. Twelve years earlier, I’d started the Charlotte C. Ross Foundation, which was