Page 44

During my freshman year of high school, he signed up for the San Francisco Marathon.

He’d run every morning before the sun came up.

I remember the sound of the door closing behind him when he sneaked out in those early hours.

When I heard him come back, that served as my alarm telling me to wake up.

He’d make breakfast for Merry and me, usually still wearing his running clothes, then shower and get ready for his workday while we ate.

I knew it was a big deal, this race, the training and dedication involved.

But I was also a new teenager and couldn’t be bothered to give many things beyond myself much attention.

“Remember that one morning . . .”

I start laughing before I can even continue, the mental image of the story I’m about to recount triggering instant glee.

Merry looks confused for just a few seconds, and then it clicks for her, and she can’t help but laugh too.

“The shorts!” she says.

My dad always wore these short shorts—another reason I didn’t want to be seen with him at races.

On this one morning, I came into the kitchen while he was making breakfast after his run and found him wearing the shorts inside out, with the hammock-like netting on the outside.

At first, I wasn’t sure what I was looking at, but then Merry came in behind me and laughed harder than I’d ever heard her laugh.

She doubled over, one arm clutching her stomach.

It took her a solid five minutes to catch her breath.

“Didn’t you realize you had no ... support ... down there?” she said, before erupting in laughter again.

“I get dressed in the dark,” he protested. “Because I don’t want to wake you by turning on the light.”

“And I appreciate that almost as much as I appreciate this sight before my eyes,” she said.

I laughed along with her. “Did you notice anybody giving you weird looks?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

Merry and I laughed about that for days. We begged him to wear his shorts inside out for the marathon, told him he would get more enthusiastic cheers from the crowds that way.

“You girls are ridiculous,” he said.

I look to Dad’s face now and think I see a small smile there. Maybe I’m imagining it.

“I was so proud of you when you ran that marathon, Dad,” I say to him.

His head bobs a little, a nod, maybe.

After dinner, I wheel him back to his room and help Frank use the lift to get him back into bed.

“His lips are dry. He’s probably a bit parched,” Frank says.

He brings over what looks like a lollipop, but there’s a small sponge at the end where the candy would be.

He dips the sponge into the glass of water at Dad’s bedside, then places it on Dad’s lips.

Dad’s lips manage to purse around the sponge, giving it enough pressure to extract a tiny amount of water.

Merry comes in. She gives him little kisses on his cheek—five, ten, twenty of them.

“Good night, my love,” she says. She strokes his bald head. I stare at the constellations of sunspots on it, start to count them, stop when I get to thirty.

I give him a kiss on his other cheek—just one.

“I’ll be right upstairs,” I tell him, in case he’s wondering, in case he’s worried about dying without us nearby.

“I’ll be here until the hospice nurse comes,” Frank says.

This is the first night a hospice nurse will stand watch through the night. Meaning this is the first night they think he might die.

Merry and I go up the stairs together. My legs are heavy. It feels as if I am wearing boots made of concrete.

“The nights are so hard,” she says. “I hate thinking of him alone down there.”

“He won’t be alone tonight.”

“Should I be sitting with him all night? Is that what I should do?”

“I think you should get some sleep,” I tell her. “Or try to.”

She sighs. I walk her to her room, pull back the sheets on her bed, and encourage her to get in. She acquiesces, sitting up straight against the headboard, eyes wide open and alert, the eyes of someone bracing for impact.

“Do you want me to stay in here with you?”

I could sleep next to her, in my dad’s spot.

She shakes her head. “No, no. Thank you. You get some sleep too.”

“The nurse knows to come get us if—”

“Yes,” she says. “I told them.”

With that, I go to my room, quite sure I won’t be doing any sleeping.

Waiting for death is a lot like waiting for birth—health-care providers bustling about, taking vitals, tracking numbers.

There is the anticipation, the uncertainty, the mystery.

Then eventually, the agony, the gore, the release, the beauty.

Nobody can say exactly when he’ll die. “When he’s ready,” they say.

They—the doctors—said the same when I was at the end of my pregnancies—“She’ll come when she’s ready. ” There is so much surrender required.

I have several text messages waiting for me on my phone—a couple from Kyle, a few from Elijah.

Kyle: Just checking in. How’s your dad?

Kyle: Girls are in bed. Hope all is ok there

Elijah: Thinking of you nonstop

Elijah: I can come to you if that would help in any way

Elijah: Even if we just sit in my car and you cry, that’s fine with me

I respond to Kyle first:

Things here are heavy. They say he could pass any time now. Thanks for holding down the fort.

I wait for three dots to tell me he’s responding, but there are none.

He’s probably already asleep, exhausted by the girls.

I can’t even find it in myself to resent him.

Like I’ve said, Kyle is not an awful human being.

He just doesn’t love me the way I need to be loved.

I had no idea how I needed to be loved until I met Elijah.

I was discontented before Elijah, yes. I had a vague sense of “not this” when I contemplated my marriage to Kyle.

But there was no proof of something else, something more, being possible.

A stronger, more courageous person wouldn’t need proof.

A stronger, more courageous person would walk away from “not this” into the unknown, trusting in the existence of something more.

I think I have demonstrated that I am neither strong nor courageous.

I respond to Elijah:

Actually, that sounds nice. To just sit with you. It’s hard to believe anything will make me feel better right now, but you are probably the most likely to succeed

He responds immediately, as he always does, never giving me even a moment to doubt his care for me.

You just tell me where to be and I will do everything in my power to make you feel momentarily better. And if that’s not possible, I’ll just hold you

My eyes well up with tears at his words, at his kindness, at how undeserving I am of it.

How do you always know the exact right thing to say?

Him: I think we just have one of those special connections, when the things that are most natural for me to say are the things that you naturally want to hear

There are two conflicting viewpoints in the zeitgeist. One states that true love should be easy. The other states that true love takes hard work. My marriage has been predicated on the latter. My relationship with Elijah, whatever it is and whatever it will be, is predicated on the former.

There’s a park just down the street from the house. When I was a teenager, I used to sneak out at night and meet my high school boyfriend there. He’d bring a blanket, and we’d make out on the grass, the moon casting what felt like a spotlight just on us. It was romantic, sweet.

I can’t have Elijah come to the house, for obvious reasons. But I could have him meet me at the park.

I’m going to get some fresh air soon. There’s a park near here. Do you want to meet me there?

He doesn’t ask any questions, doesn’t imply that he finds this idea strange in the slightest. He just says:

You got it

I send him the address.

He asks:

Can I bring anything for you?

Yes. Bring a blanket