Free Life and Other Near-Death Experiences by Camille Pagán

stairwell in front of our apartment.
    I smiled out of habit, but then the more evolved neurons in my brain reconnected, and I remembered that this man was no longer my ally but rather the enemy.
    “Fire!” I yelled, because I once read this was the fastest way to get help if you were being attacked.
    “You can’t keep running,” he said, although he took a step back. He was probably afraid, and rightly so, that I would pull a kitchen utensil out of my coat after I finished accusing him of arson.
    “Watch me,” I retorted, attempting to skedaddle. With two large suitcases attached to my person, this was a bit of a challenge.
    Faced with my imminent departure, Tom lunged forward to grab my arm. I jerked away, which sent the larger of the two suitcases tumbling. I’m sorry to report that my hand was still firmly clamped around the handle, so away I went—bump, bump, bump, belly-down on the stairs, the synthetic carpet grabbing at my incision like Velcro. I gritted my teeth, willing myself not to cry out in pain. The suitcase and I landed in a pile in front of the ground-floor apartments.
    One of my neighbors, whose name was Bill, maybe, or Will, stuck his head out the door, probably curious to know who was making such a racket at eight in the morning. “Hello?” he said. Then he looked down at me. “Yeesh! Are you okay?”
    Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tom approaching. “Help!” I cried. “My ex-husband is trying to kill me!”
    “Knock it off, Libby!” Tom said, although he had gone to the trouble of carrying my second suitcase down for me.
    With some effort, I stood up. There was a searing sensation radiating from my stomach, and I was fairly certain that half of my stitches had just been ripped out, but I was going to have to learn to get used to pain. Perhaps the Brookstone store at the airport sold self-hypnosis CDs.
    “Should I call someone?” Bill-or-Will asked, glancing at Tom, who was now standing next to me.
    “Only if you hear me scream again,” I said. Then I turned to Tom and opened my mouth wide, the corners of my lips curling upward in a creepy clown smile.
    The neighbor closed his door, although I was willing to bet he was lingering on the other side, waiting to see if our marital strife would play out as comedy or tragedy.
    “Libby,” Tom warned. “Please stop it. I just want to talk to you. I need you to know that this isn’t your fault. Your behavior tells me that you don’t actually know that. I think you should see a psychologist.”
    “My fault?” I said. “My fault?! At what point did I give you the impression that I think I am the reason you are attracted to men?”
    “Can we please go somewhere else to talk about this? Like our apartment?” He sounded exasperated.
    “See, that’s the thing,” I said. My stomach really hurt, and it was hard to separate that from the anger I felt toward Tom. “You insist on talking to me when I clearly do not want to talk. You tell me I should see a shrink. You’re a control freak, Tom, and you think that this—you ending our marriage—is something you can control. Well, I’ve got news for you: the show’s over. How I react is entirely up to me. Me! ” I yelled, channeling my nephews yet again. “ Not you.”
    He looked almost as surprised as when I’d forked him. “I’m sorry, Libby. I was only trying to be helpful when I said you should see someone. You should, you know. You’re not acting like yourself.”
    “The Libby you knew is dead, Tom,” I said. “And by the way, I changed the locks. Until I get back and hire an attorney, you’ll need to find somewhere else to live.”
    I took my luggage and rather ungracefully maneuvered it through the front door, down the sidewalk, and onto the curb. Then I stuck my fingers in my mouth and whistled for the livery cab I had called to take me to O’Hare. The rest of my life was waiting, and I did not intend to be late.

ELEVEN
    Great mother of pearl! Liquor was powerful