Page 48 of Woman on the Verge

“The guest room?” She sounded appalled, like I’d just suggested we eat raw sewage for breakfast.

“It’s not safe for him to be going up and down the stairs. You just said that.”

“That room is so stuffy.”

I put my hand on her shoulder.

“And there’s no TV in there!”

“Mer, I know none of this is pleasant, but we have to consider what’s safest for him, right?”

She shifted so my hand dropped from her shoulder, then stood.

“Can we talk about this tomorrow? I am exhausted.”

“Yeah, sure. Of course.”

I was already sensing that she wouldn’t want to talk about this tomorrow, though. She wouldn’t want to talk about this at all. I would have to be the one to make decisions, to force them if necessary.

She walked toward the staircase.

“Your old room is made up for you,” she said over her shoulder.

“Okay, thanks.”

She clung to the banister as she took the steps. I couldn’t remember if she’d done that the last time I was there. It was as if my dad’s diagnosis had made us feel vulnerable to tragedy in a way we’d never been before. For the rest of our lives, we would be watching our steps and clinging to banisters.

I took a Benadryl so I’d sleep, knowing I’d need my energy in the days ahead. When I woke up, it was nearly eight—not as life-changing as nine, but still “sleeping in” according to any mother of small children.

I didn’t hear my dad and Merry downstairs, so I walked to their bedroom, feeling suddenly like the little girl I once was, on her way to cuddle with her dad and watch cartoons.

Merry was in their bathroom, applying cream to her face and neck. She does not go outside these days without several layers of protection from the cancer-causing sun. I was about to ask her where my dad was when I turned and saw that he was still in bed, sound asleep, flat on his back, snoring.

“He’s tired,” she said. “I’m sure he doesn’t sleep well with all that flailing around.”

I sat on the bed next to him.

“I’m going to make coffee. You coming down?” she asked.

“I’ll wait for him to get up.”

“Okay. He’ll need help on the stairs.”

“I know, Mer.”

She went on her way, and I lay next to him, my head on the edge of his pillow. He seemed so peaceful. Did he have any idea he was dying?

His eyes fluttered, and I said, “Hi, Daddy.”

He blinked several times. I repeated myself: “Hi, Daddy.”

Slowly, he turned his head. When he saw me there next to him, he smiled.

“Nikki Bear,” he said. It’s something he used to call me when I was little.

“How did you sleep?” I asked.

“Okay,” he said. “When do I get to leave the hospital?”