Page 118 of Woman on the Verge

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

Chapter 21

Therese

They send a woman named Margot to come get me. It seems a bit excessive—I could have driven myself—but I suppose they’ve deemed me a flight risk. After all, I’ve already tried to leave my life (in a sense). They have every right to think I’ll do it again.

Margot is about six feet tall, with the shoulders of a swimmer who specializes in the breaststroke. She has uncannily good posture. If she holds her head any higher, she might tip backward.

“Are you ready?” Her voice is as gruff as her appearance suggests it would be.

I am standing in front of my house, a large suitcase and a small duffel bag at my feet. I am ready, practically speaking. I will never be ready otherwise.

Margot doesn’t wait for me to answer anyway. She picks up my suitcase, which must weigh forty pounds but looks to weigh five pounds in her impressively capable hands. The sleeves of her shirt stretch across her flexed biceps as she takes the suitcase to the car and tosses it into the back of the white van as if it’s a child’s backpack.

All this reminds me of that showIntervention, when they escort the addict to a rehab facility—always in a white van—before cutting to ninety days later when the addict is clean and sober, carrying ahealthy amount of extra weight, face glowing, full of hope for the future. Occasionally, right before the credits roll, text on screen reveals a relapse, an overdose, a death. I wonder what the final on-screen text of my episode would say.

Margot opens the side door of the van, and I climb inside. I hug my duffel bag against my chest as if it is one of my children. I cannot think too much of them, or I will sob.

Margot puts the key in the ignition, and the van comes to life.

This is really happening.

“Last chance. Forgetting anything?” Margot asks.