Page 120 of Woman on the Verge

Everything in me wants to run after her, to beg her to take me home. Why did I agree to come—toCome!—to this place?

I take a deep breath, remind myself that I owe my loved ones this, an admittance of my insanity, a willingness to improve and return a new person. Or not a new person, but the person I was before I became the one I am now. Regression is considered a bad thing for children—a six-year-old suddenly peeing the bed, a two-year-old waking two times a night after sleeping through for months, a five-year-old babbling like a baby. But for adults, regression can be desirable.

I just want my wife back.

Every woman here has probably heard those words.

“Therese? I’m Phoebe,” the round woman says, “and I’m so excited to welcomeyou.” The effortful overemphasis on thecomemakes me embarrassed for her.

“Hi,” I say.

“What do you say we go inside?”

Chapter 22

Nicole

Elijah is waiting for me at the park, leaning against a light post, the hood of a jacket pulled over his head.

“Hey, you,” he says when he sees me coming. He holds out his arms, welcoming me into an embrace that I happily receive.

It’s not a typical hug with a five-second duration. It is an encapsulation. His body seems to absorb mine, along with all the troubles it contains within. I do not want to let go. Thirty seconds pass, a minute. I wait for the muscles in his arms to relax as he pulls away, but they remain tight and tense, committed to holding me for however long I need, possibly forever. I cry, not about my dad but about the fact that I have someone in my life who is willing to hold me like this, someone who is honored to hold me like this.

“Thank you,” I mumble into his ear. My lips settle on the warm skin of his neck.

“You don’t need to thank me.”

“Yes I do. If I didn’t, it would be like saying that this type of thing is normal—driving to a random park at night, shivering in the cold, giving whatever bodily warmth you have to someone else.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he says.

I am the one to release his hold, to drop my arms at my side, because I sense he never will. Kyle will never hold me like this, with such generosity of spirit. It’s just not in his relational wheelhouse. We adapt to the partners we have, adjust expectations so diligently that we forget what we even desire.

He bends down to retrieve a folded blanket at his feet, holds it out to me.

“I brought the warmest one I have,” he says.

I shake it out onto the grass; then I lie flat, staring at the black sky. It is too cloudy to see any stars tonight—typical for Daly City. He lies next to me, takes my hand in his, his thumb stroking each of my knuckles.

“He’s really dying,” I say.

He squeezes my hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“Have you ever seen someone dying?”

“Nope.”

“It’s terrible.”

“I can only imagine.”

I appreciate that he says that instead of “I can’t imagine.” I hate when people say “I can’t imagine” in response to someone’s tragedy.You can imagine,I want to say.You just don’t want to.

“Nobody talks about this, the process of it. People just die behind closed doors, and the rest of the world thinks it’s this neat, tidy experience. But it’s fucking brutal.”

He doesn’t say anything, just squeezes my hand again.