Page 114 of Woman on the Verge

Kyle and I may not be “meant to be,” whatever that even means, but he’s not an awful human being. I, on the other hand, may be.

I pack a suitcase while Kyle keeps watching TV. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, so I pack about half my entire closet. It is surreal to think that when I return, when I unpack this suitcase, my dad will be dead.

By the time I get in bed, Kyle is already asleep, snoring away. I gently push on his back so he rolls on his side. I text Elijah:

My dad is going downhill. I’m flying up tomorrow

He responds immediately because his generation is never without their phones. I am old enough to wrestle with such an attachment.

I’m so sorry. How can I be there for you? Can I send food to your mom’s place?

My mom’s place. I haven’t told him that my mom died, that I have a stepmom. There is so much he doesn’t know.

That’s sweet. Let me get up there and see what’s going on first

There are three dots for a while, and I wonder what paragraph-length text he’s composing. The dots go away and then reappear momentarily before his words appear:

I think I love you

There it is. The words I have both longed and feared to hear. My body thrums with ecstatic energy. If I listen to my body, his love for me is a good thing. My head tells me it’s all much more complicated.

He adds more:

Sorry. It’s not the right time to say that. I just felt ... verklempt.

I smile.

Verklempt? Nice word choice.

Him: Yes. Verklempt. I do love you though. And I want to be there for you however I can

I respond with something thrilling, words that put me at the top of a roller coaster, soaring down through the breeze, not knowing if I’ll crash into the ground or rise up into the sky again:

I think I love you too

When I see my dad, I sigh with relief. Things are not as dire as I’d envisioned. He is still here, still him. I lie next to him in bed, take comfort in his warmth. His eyes remain closed, but his lips turn upward in a small smile. Merry says he doesn’t open his eyes much anymore.

He is more contracted than he was just a few days ago, curled into himself, almost into a fetal position. I play the role of big spoon, my body wrapped around his. It is a role I never thought I’d play.

He is so, so thin. It’s no wonder they call it a wasting disease. I stare at his legs, mere sticks now. With all the surrounding flesh gone, the bones are all that remain, smaller than I ever thought possible. I place my palm on his femur, marveling. Where did his fleshgo?

His breathing is fast and shallow. There is an oxygen machine now, emitting rhythmic whooshing sounds. Merry says his heart rate has been increasing, which the hospice nurse said happens near the end. His heart is literally racing to get enough blood to his vital organs. The body is programmed for survival. It will make all kinds of adjustments to carry on.

Frank comes to the house with jars of baby food, several varieties of Gerber. My dad is subsisting on food my daughters are too old to eat. I trade spots with Merry, watch as she attempts to spoon-feed my dad, deliver minuscule portions into the small opening he is able to make with the slight parting of his lips. It is excruciating to witness.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, finding it impossible to stay.

There’s a knock at the front door, and I answer it. A thirtysomething woman in navy blue scrubs is standing there with an overstuffed bag over one shoulder and a clipboard in her hands. She frees up one hand and sticks it out to me.

“Hi,” she says. “I’m Becky, the hospice nurse.”

“Oh, hi,” I say.

“Are you Rob’s daughter?”

I like that she refers to him by name, that she knows his name without consulting her clipboard.

“I am. Nicole.”