Page 31

Nicole

Merry wants me to interview the prospective caretaker for my dad over Zoom. Kyle is on an important work call, so I have given the girls the iPad, along with their favorite yogurt tubes and banana slices in the shape of a happy face, in hopes that they will be quiet and well behaved.

Usually when I see myself on Zoom, I am so horrified that I select the option that enables me not to view myself, and then, during the call, I google the cost of dermal fillers (insanely expensive).

Today, though, I look decent. Could it be possible that Elijah has brought color to my cheeks?

Or am I just viewing myself—and the surrounding world—through rose-tinted glasses now that I have a man in my life who adores me for reasons I am no longer interested in questioning?

“Mom, I don’t want to eat a Face ,” Grace says, expressing horror at the banana slices before her.

She has eaten banana slices in the shape of a happy face many times a week for the past two years.

“Um, okay,” I say, taking the plate from her. I will not let this get to me. “How about a heart?”

I rearrange the slices into the shape of a heart and pass it back across the table to her.

“Wow, how did you do that so fast?”

It does not take much to anger or impress a child.

“Mommy is magical,” Liv says.

That’s a big word for her— magical . She knows it because I read them a book called My Mommy Is Magical .

“Okay, girls, Mommy has a call, remember?” I say, my voice annoyingly high pitched. Sometimes, it’s not just that I hate mothering but also that I hate who I am as a mother. Maybe it’s more that than anything.

They turn their attention to the iPad. They are watching a strange retelling of “Cinderella,” and one of the characters says, “But your life will be nothing without the prince,” and I worry for their future aspirations.

The prospective caregiver is named Frank. Merry met him in person and said he seemed “fine,” but she felt I should also talk to him before she agreed to have him in their home on a mostly full-time basis.

“I need you to tell me if he seems like the stealing type,” she said.

I was surprised when she said the caregiver was a he, and not just any he, but a he with the name Frank.

It’s hard to picture anything besides a gruff middle-aged man with an expansive waistline.

I don’t know what such a person would be doing working for a caregiving agency for eighteen bucks an hour.

When he comes onto the screen, he is nothing like what I’ve pictured.

He is not middle aged. He’s about my age—fortyish.

Which, I guess, might be middle aged, considering life expectancy in the United States is right around eighty.

My mind starts to wander, considering whether or not this thing with Elijah is some kind of midlife crisis, exacerbated by my father dying and my daughters annihilating my mental health.

Before I can travel too far down that dark and dank rabbit hole, Frank speaks:

“Hello there. You must be Nicole.”

He has a southern accent. The surprises keep coming.

After we exchange pleasantries, he says, “The agency thought I would be a good fit. Your dad’s not a small guy, ya know? Those four-foot-tall ladies aren’t gonna cut it with him.”

His laugh is big, hearty. I laugh along with him.

He lifts one of his biceps, flexes. “I work out every day. I can assure you your dad will be in good hands.”

He takes it upon himself to show me his hands. They are large and capable looking, which I guess is his point.

He asks if I have any questions for him, so I ask how he got into caregiving. He says he was living at home in his twenties when his mom got cancer, and he took care of her until the end. That experience made him think he wanted to do the same service for others.

“My heart’s as big as my hands.”

I decide he does not seem like the “stealing type.” He seems like the type who will volunteer to be a mall Santa Claus when he gets older.

“I’m assuming they told you what my dad has?” I ask.

I glance up at the girls to see if they are listening to the conversation. They are still enthralled with the Cinderella story. I haven’t said anything to them yet about their papa dying. I have been meaning to google tips for having such a conversation.

“They did,” Frank says, nodding his head solemnly. “Can’t say I’d ever heard of it, but I looked it up online. What a terrible thing. I’m so sorry.”

He looks as if he might cry, and I have no idea how someone with such a sensitive constitution can do this job.

“So you can start right away?” I ask.

“I can. Just finished up another job.”

I take it that “finished up” means his prior client died. Perhaps it would be a good thing to become so intimately acquainted with death, to be up close with it so often that it loses its power to surprise and devastate.

“That’s great. I’ll be up there this weekend, so I can meet you in person then. Do you have any questions for me? I want to be the point of contact for you. Meredith is dealing with so much.”

“Of course, understood. Just a couple questions for you. Does your dad like music?”

“He does.”

“Great, I think it helps them to listen to music.”

Them. The dying, he means.

“He likes classic rock mostly. Anything from the sixties.”

“Sounds like my type of guy.”

“He’s most people’s type of guy,” I say.

Now I feel like I might cry. My throat tightens just like it did when I was with Elijah.

Grace, ever perceptive, looks at me with a level of concern that scares the tears back into their ducts.

“Mommy, what’s wrong?” she asks.

I read something a while back that said to validate your children when they correctly identify an emotion in you.

So if you’re angry and they say, “Why are you angry?” don’t say “I’m not angry.

” Apparently, doing so teaches them not to trust their perceptions, and then they go through life as confused, lost, empty vessels waiting to be preyed upon by ill-intentioned cult leaders who thrive on others’ vulnerabilities.

It’s an interesting concept, but I’m not sure I buy it.

Weren’t we all raised by parents lying to our faces?

In any case, I don’t say “Nothing’s wrong,” which is what I want to say. Instead, I say, “I’m just a bit sad.”

“Is that your little girl?” Frank says as Grace scoots over on the bench seat to be next to me, her little hand patting my back. I do not understand how she can be both an empath and a sociopath.

“Yes, this is Grace,” I tell him. “Grace, this is Frank.”

Grace does her wave where she flaps her fingers into her palm. Now Liv climbs down from her seat and comes to sit on the other side of me.

“Oh, wow, you’ve got two of them,” Frank says.

He is beaming. Frank would probably be a good dad.

“Yes, this is Liv.”

Liv copies her sister’s wave.

“Who are you?” Grace says to the screen.

Frank’s eyes flick to mine. He is likely trying to decide how to explain his role.

“I’m Frank” is all he says.

“Hi, Frank,” Grace says.

“Hi, Frank,” Liv parrots.

“Okay, Frank, I’ll plan on seeing you this weekend, then,” I tell him. “But please call or text if you need anything. You have my number, yes?”

“I do,” he says. “Thanks for that. You all have a great day.”

I end the call and close my laptop.

“I like Frank,” Grace says.

“Me too,” I tell her.

Elijah and I text throughout the week. He asks what I’m up to on a daily basis, and I lie on a daily basis.

I say I am “swamped with work,” “in back-to-back meetings,” when the reality is that I’m sitting next to Grace while she’s on her little potty, whining because “the poo-poo won’t come.

” I say I am headed to the gym when I am really taking the girls to the park yet again.

In my defense, I do endure a workout when Grace forces me to sit on the other side of the seesaw from her, pushing us up and down until my thighs burn.

On Thursday afternoon, Grace and Liv jump on the bed as I pack my bag for the weekend, taking tags off more lingerie that’s been crumpled up at the back of my underwear drawer.

Kyle comes in with a look on his face that immediately makes my insides flip.

Something is wrong. I am not going to be able to leave this weekend.

“Hey,” he says, his voice weak. This is his sick voice. I am screwed.

Since our fight, we have settled back into a relatively calm complacency that many couples must mistake for contentment.

It helps that I’m out of town. It helps that I have Elijah.

It helps that Kyle has never wanted to dive beneath the surface of our marriage.

He might be storing up all kinds of grievances, like a squirrel with nuts before winter, but he is not one to express his feelings—a previous con that has become a pro.

In the end, I will have to introduce the possibility of divorce, and he will say he’s shocked.

Kyle flops onto the bed, and Liv jumps on top of him.

“Liv, come on. I’m not feeling good, okay?”

He lifts her up by the armpits, sets her on the bed next to him. He must have pinched her skin or something because she comes to me, her bottom lip trembling, then starts sobbing.

I pick her up because this is what mothers do. They stop whatever the fuck they are doing to make everything okay.

I hold her against my chest, my arms wrapped around her, her legs wrapped around me, her head on my shoulder, big fat tears wetting my neck. I give Kyle a look.

“She’s acting. She knows if she does this, you’ll coddle her,” he says.

A hot flash overtakes me, rolling through my body like a wave.

You’re such an asshole, I think. I’ve told him before to stop saying things like this, to stop telling the girls to their faces that their emotions are not valid, to stop being so condescending and dismissive.

He says I’m too soft with them, and I say he’s too hard, and this is just one of several stalemates.