Don’t Make Me Turn This Life Around, Pagán, Camille [read novels website TXT] 📗

“I’m sorry you were afraid to tell me that. I know that since my dad died, I’ve been pushing everything hard under the rug and pretending I’m fine with all of it. But I’m trying not to do that anymore. I’m trying to get better with letting myself feel fear and shame and anger instead of just pushing them away.”

“I know,” he said. “I could tell by the conversation you had with the girls the other day, and when we were seeing Milagros.”

I bit my lip. “Then . . . is it cancer?”

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “I’m waiting on test results.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again as my eyes filled with tears. And I was. So incredibly sorry that my own self-protection had gotten in the way of my family’s ability to connect with me. Sorry that he was having to grapple with the possibility of having cancer—again. Sorry about all of it. “Are you okay?”

He looked at me with such tenderness that my heart broke. All that time we were on our trip and he was carrying around this terrible secret. “You don’t have to apologize for being a human, Libby,” he said. “No matter how you were going to take it, I should have told you. I guess . . .” He sighed. “I just didn’t want you to tell me it was going to be fine.”

I thought about all the people who told me that I was going to be fine after I was diagnosed with cancer. It turned out they were right, of course—but that wasn’t really the point. When someone insists that you’re okay and everything is going to be just dandy . . . well, it makes you feel like all of the fear and terror and sadness you’re experiencing aren’t legitimate. But they are. They’re as real as your own two hands, and it’s horrible to have to pretend otherwise.

“How can I help?” I said. “Do you want me to go with you to the doctor?”

He shook his head. “I wish I’d taken you, but I went in two days before we left. The doctor did an ultrasound and a needle biopsy. The results are in, but I haven’t called yet. I was waiting until we got home. I’ll call Monday.”

It was Saturday, but naturally I wanted to tell him to find out his doctor’s home number and call immediately. I wanted to tell him to break into the diagnostic center if that’s what it took to get rid of the uncertainty hanging over us like a slab of concrete dangling from a crane.

“All right,” I said. I sounded surprisingly calm for someone who wasn’t. It was entirely possible that his leukemia had returned. Or that it was another form of cancer. Maybe he’d have to get chemo and radiation. He would spend months out of work, and depending on the outcome, he might have to retire early. The medical bills might bankrupt us, and we’d have to sell our apartment and make all kinds of choices that would devastate the girls and our plans for the future.

Or maybe not, I thought suddenly. And damned if that thought didn’t feel like bumping into a long-lost friend.

“All right?” he said.

“Yes,” I said, nodding. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with, but whatever it is, I’m here for you, and so are Charlotte and Isa and everyone else who loves you.”

He didn’t respond, but the worry had left his face.

“How intent are you on unpacking right now?” I said.

“On a scale of one to ten? I’m a two,” he said, cracking a grin. “How about we just lie here and cuddle for a bit?”

I smiled. “Thought you’d never ask.”

THIRTY-ONE

The next morning, Charlotte asked if she could talk to me. “Real quick,” she said. “I know you and Isa are going to the bookstore soon.”

“Not for another half an hour or so,” I told her, gesturing to the newspaper that I was still in the middle of reading. It was a Sunday, and I’d just made the girls their favorite brunch—bagels and bacon. “What is it?”

She pulled up a chair beside me at the dining room table. “I think we should go back and talk to Dr. Ornstein,” she said, referring to her pediatric endocrinologist.

“Really?” I said. “What about?”

“Getting an insulin pump and one of those monitor thingies.”

My mouth hung open. When Dr. Ornstein had brought up a pump and continuous glucose monitor two appointments ago, Charlotte had recoiled at the idea of having the small device attached to her body via a port. She was worried it would be too easy to rip out when she was playing sports—but her bigger concern was that people would see it and know she had diabetes. Although I wanted to tell her it was nothing to be ashamed of, her doctor had gently reminded me and Shiloh that she would come to that conclusion on her own. Not as a result of us constantly hammering home that message. “I see,” I said, careful not to sound like I was pushing her. “It’s a big commitment, and we’ll need to make sure you still fit the requirements.”

“I know.”

“I asked her to do it,” said Isa, coming up from behind us. “I’ll even help her if she needs.”

I swiveled around to look at her. “Is that so?”

She nodded. “Vieques was scary. I cried the whole boat ride back to Fajardo because Charlotte was so shaky. I thought she was going to die. If she had that continuous thingy, we wouldn’t have to worry about her blood sugar tanking all the time.”

“Oh, Isa,” I said, reaching out to take her hand. “That must have been frightening for both of you. I wish I’d been there for you.”

“You would have told me not to freak out,” she said.

I winced. “I might have, yes. But listen, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, especially since Vieques. I’ve always been an optimist—you guys probably know that—but since your grandpa died, I’ve been really struggling.”

“You?” said Charlotte, scrunching