Page 18

Nicole

It was just before midnight when I got to my dad and Merry’s house Friday evening.

Merry had left a key under the doormat, and I let myself in quietly, not wanting to wake them, but then discovered Merry was still awake, sitting on the couch in the living room, watching something with a laugh track on TV.

“Hey, Mer,” I said, not wanting to startle her. She was startled anyway.

“Oh god, Nicole, you scared me.”

She put her hand to her heart.

“You’re still up?”

She was fully dressed in linen pants and a wool sweater.

“I can’t sleep. Your father has these muscle spasms. It’s like someone shocks him with a cattle prod. He hit me in the face last night.”

I’d seen the spasms in the hospital. Whenever he’d fall asleep, his arms would start to twitch. Sometimes one of them would float upward and stick straight up in the air.

“I’m sorry.” I sat next to her on the couch. “How is he today?”

She shrugged. “The same. I’m worried about him on the stairs. His walking has gotten so much worse just in the last week.”

I’d read online about this—the rapid decline. He would need a wheelchair in the near future. I had no idea how to procure a wheelchair.

“I was thinking on the drive up that we should move him to the guest room down here,” I said.

“The guest room?” She sounded appalled, like I’d just suggested we eat raw sewage for breakfast.

“It’s not safe for him to be going up and down the stairs. You just said that.”

“That room is so stuffy.”

I put my hand on her shoulder.

“And there’s no TV in there!”

“Mer, I know none of this is pleasant, but we have to consider what’s safest for him, right?”

She shifted so my hand dropped from her shoulder, then stood.

“Can we talk about this tomorrow? I am exhausted.”

“Yeah, sure. Of course.”

I was already sensing that she wouldn’t want to talk about this tomorrow, though. She wouldn’t want to talk about this at all. I would have to be the one to make decisions, to force them if necessary.

She walked toward the staircase.

“Your old room is made up for you,” she said over her shoulder.

“Okay, thanks.”

She clung to the banister as she took the steps.

I couldn’t remember if she’d done that the last time I was there.

It was as if my dad’s diagnosis had made us feel vulnerable to tragedy in a way we’d never been before.

For the rest of our lives, we would be watching our steps and clinging to banisters.

I took a Benadryl so I’d sleep, knowing I’d need my energy in the days ahead. When I woke up, it was nearly eight—not as life-changing as nine, but still “sleeping in” according to any mother of small children.

I didn’t hear my dad and Merry downstairs, so I walked to their bedroom, feeling suddenly like the little girl I once was, on her way to cuddle with her dad and watch cartoons.

Merry was in their bathroom, applying cream to her face and neck. She does not go outside these days without several layers of protection from the cancer-causing sun. I was about to ask her where my dad was when I turned and saw that he was still in bed, sound asleep, flat on his back, snoring.

“He’s tired,” she said. “I’m sure he doesn’t sleep well with all that flailing around.”

I sat on the bed next to him.

“I’m going to make coffee. You coming down?” she asked.

“I’ll wait for him to get up.”

“Okay. He’ll need help on the stairs.”

“I know, Mer.”

She went on her way, and I lay next to him, my head on the edge of his pillow. He seemed so peaceful. Did he have any idea he was dying?

His eyes fluttered, and I said, “Hi, Daddy.”

He blinked several times. I repeated myself: “Hi, Daddy.”

Slowly, he turned his head. When he saw me there next to him, he smiled.

“Nikki Bear,” he said. It’s something he used to call me when I was little.

“How did you sleep?” I asked.

“Okay,” he said. “When do I get to leave the hospital?”

“Dad, we’re not at the hospital. We’re at home.”

He looked around him, bewildered. “Oh,” he said. “I guess we are.”

“But you were in the hospital.”

“I was?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said.

“Where’s Ruby?” he asked, patting alongside him where the dog used to sleep. That dog was always at his side.

“Dad, Ruby died a long time ago.”

He sighed, and I could almost see him start to forget the conversation we’d just had.

“Do you have school today?” he asked.

“School?”

“Is Mom taking you?”

“Dad, there’s no school today. I’m visiting you from Orange County.”

“Orange County?”

“Yes. That’s where I live.”

I rested my head on his chest, his solid, safe-place-to-fall chest.

“Nikki, life sucks sometimes,” he said, apropos of nothing.

It was the most sensible thing he’d said since the beginning of this mess.

I felt the telltale tingle in my nose that always precedes tears. My vision blurred. I swallowed back the sadness, wiped my eyes. My grief would confuse my dad. He didn’t understand that there was anything to grieve.

“It does suck,” I said.

“But I guess it makes you appreciate the good times.”

I lifted my head and looked into his eyes. He was still there, my dad. He was still him, at least for short moments.

“Why don’t I drive us to get doughnuts?” he asked.

Just like that, he was gone.

“Dad, no driving.”

He groaned.

“If you can count backward from one hundred by sevens, maybe you can drive,” I said.

“Oh, Nikki, that’s too hard.”

He laughed, so I laughed, both of us pretending he was joking, bonded by our mutual denial.

“Do you want me to help you get up?” I asked.

My dad has never been one to ask for help.

Frankly, I have no memories of him needing help up until that moment.

Merry did a lot to keep the household running, but she always seemed stressed, always operating in a state of mild overwhelm.

My dad embodied strength and calm. He neutralized her anxieties.

If I imagined our three-person family as a house, he was the load-bearing wall, that unassuming beam responsible for keeping everything from caving in on itself.

He didn’t answer my question, so I took it upon myself to get out of bed and go around to his side.

He didn’t protest as I pulled his arms to help him sit up.

I put his slippers on his feet and then helped him stand.

He was wobbly and tipped into me, quickly overwhelming me with his weight.

I was able to set him straight. He had a crooked smile on his face. He seemed both embarrassed and amused.

“We need to get you a cane,” I said, adding that to my mental list.

I helped him walk to the staircase. He was okay once he got going, but the steps presented a significant challenge.

“We’ll just go slow,” I told him.

And we did. We took one step at a time, pausing on the landing of each one to assess our next move. In just a week’s time, he’d gone from walking strangely to barely walking. There was no way he could continue sleeping upstairs. He had to be in the downstairs bedroom.

When we got to the bottom, I’d broken out in a sweat. I walked him to the kitchen table, and when he sat, he said, “Ahhhhh,” as if he’d just settled into a lounge chair at a resort pool in Maui.

Merry brought two mugs of coffee—one for me, one for him—along with a plate of toast with butter and jam. I watched my dad’s hand shake as it reached out for a piece of toast. He was able to get it himself, no problem, but at the rate things were going, I didn’t think that would be true next week.

“Do you want one of those smoothies in the plastic bottles?” Merry asked him.

He nodded, so she brought it to him. He took one sip and said, “This has a funny taste” and put it down. Merry looked put out, as if she’d made the smoothie herself as opposed to buying it at the store.

I bit into a piece of toast and then decided we had to get down to business.

“Okay, so, plan for today,” I said, clapping my hands together like a motivational speaker and then immediately hating myself.

Merry sat across from me, holding her mug of coffee with two hands.

“Dad, I think we need to get you set up downstairs in the bedroom,” I said.

“Downstairs?” he said.

Merry interjected: “Nicole, do you really think—”

“Yes, I really think it’s necessary. Dad, I’ll set up a TV in there. You won’t have to deal with the stairs anymore.”

It occurred to me that I was using the tone of voice I use with the girls when trying to make something sound fun that isn’t fun: Look at these colorful floss picks we got! Aren’t you excited to brush your teeth tonight?

(Yes, I’m back to the teeth brushing.)

“The bed in there is a queen,” Merry said. “That’s not going to work.”

“Mer, I think Dad can fit in a queen bed.”

“What about me?” she asked. “I’ll be sleeping with him, won’t I?”

I hadn’t thought about that.

“You two can’t fit in a queen bed?”

“Nicole, with the spasms, I need as much space as I can get.”

“Spasms?” my dad asked.

We both looked at him. He truly had no idea what was happening to his body.

“This is delicious!” he blurted out suddenly, in reference to the smoothie.

“Did the funny taste go away?” Merry asked him.

“What funny taste? These are delicious!”

Merry and I looked at each other. Her eyes were pleading with me—for what, I don’t know.

“Okay,” I said, returning to the previous topic, “how about I disassemble the king bed and move it downstairs?”

I thought Merry would say something like “Don’t be silly, we’ll make do with the queen.” You know, like a normal person.

Instead, she said, “You can do that?” as if reassembling the bed was akin to lifting a car off the ground.

“I think I can figure it out.”

If there’s one thing motherhood has taught me, it’s that I can figure shit out.

She set down her mug, crossed her arms over her chest, and sighed. “Well, I guess that would be fine.”

“Nikki?” Dad said.

“Yeah?”

“Where’s my juice box? I think your phone ate my juice box.”

I didn’t dare look at Merry, couldn’t handle her pleading eyes again.

“I don’t know, Dad. I’ll find it.”