Page 62 of Woman on the Verge

So I guess I should be grateful. I may be starving for a baguette, but at least I have these crumbs.

To be fair, Rob does more than most fathers. I hear other mothers talk about their husbands who have never touched a diaper. Rob changes diapers, when he’s home. He’s just not home much. Because ofthe practice. But he adores Nicole, calls her Nikki Bear, grits his teeth when he just looks at her, as if he is restraining himself from acting upon his playful threat to eat her up. I watch the muscles of his jawsclench when he does this and think he might adore her more than I do. His enthusiasm for her is boundless and so seemingly natural. Then again, he doesn’t have to spend every hour of the day with her. If I had some time to myself, to my work, I would have more enthusiasm too. A few weeks ago, I told Rob that mothering is hard for me. He said, “You make it look so easy, though. You are a wonderful mother!” Then he kissed me. He is a sweet man. I am just not a sweet wife.

In any case, despite her father’s adoration of her, Nicole should have my last name. Fournier. So beautiful, so French, so much more “me” than Larson. She grew inside me, and now, even with her outside me, we are still so attached. Anyone peering into our lives would say that she is my everything.

I think of my identity, my personhood, as a giant pie. Before Nicole, there were so many slices—reader, researcher, lover, swimmer, dancer, friend-haver. Now the pie is mostly her, with a tiny sliver left of me.

This diary is dedicated to the tiny sliver.

Nicole’s calling for me. Must go for now.

Chapter 12

Nicole

“Mommmmm, can you push me on the swing?” Grace calls.

We are at a park (again), and I have just sat at a picnic table, hoping for a few minutes of quiet while the girls play. So much for that.

I’m back to being the aggravated, bitter person that I am accustomed to being. When Elijah and I parted ways yesterday, I was very clear. I told him I couldn’t see him again, despite everything in my body resisting this declaration. Ending it felt like a betrayal of self more than a betrayal of him. He was disappointed—“I’m gonna miss you, Kit Kat”—and in denial: “Maybe you’ll change your mind in a couple days.” I let him (and myself) hope for that when I said, “Maybe.” But at the first red light I came to after driving away, I deleted him from my phone (his number and all our messages), because that’s the right thing to do, because I have to focus on my dying father and my needy children and my troubled marriage.

Now that I’m at the park, being summoned, I regret deleting him. I crave his messages, crave the boost they gave me. Last week, there was nothing the girls could do to bring me down. Did they want me to diaper and rediaper their dolls for hours? Sure! Did they require a completely different breakfast? No problem! Their whining was like white noise, barely audible over the chirping birds in my head.

How am I supposed to get through my days now?

“Mommmmmm,” Grace calls again.

Liv is playing with the wood chips on the ground under the swing set, throwing them up in the air like confetti. A piece hits a little boy near her, and the boy’s mom looks at me likeAre you going to do something about this?

“Liv, honey, let’s not throw that around,” I say in a singsong voice, doing my best impression of the meditation teachers in the Calm app that I’ve used exactly once.

The mom takes her little boy to the other side of the park, not wanting to expose him to my heathens. I give the middle finger to her back because it feels good. I am tragically juvenile.

I put Liv in the bucket swing, which is right next to the swing Grace is in, a tiny miracle that may keep me from a nervous breakdown (for today, at least). I push Grace with one arm and Liv with the other. The rhythm is meditative until they both tell me they want to go higher. Because nothing is ever good enough. Last week, when I had Elijah to look forward to, I shrieked with glee along with them while I pushed. I said things like “You’re going to go to the moon!” Not today. We are all trapped on Earth today.

An email notification dings on my phone:

New test results available in your health chart

It’s my dad’s test result, the one we’ve been waiting on to confirm if he actually has this one-in-a-million disease. I registered my dad’s medical account to my email, told Merry I would handle all of that. In the two weeks since the doctor told us they were quite certain of a prion disease, Merry and I have flirted with the idea that the doctors are wrong. It has felt good to flirt.

“Girls, just a sec,” I say, ceasing my swing-pushing.

When I open the email, there is a report in front of me. I scan it.

Likelihood of prion disease: > 98%

There are other things, medical terms that mean nothing to me:T-tau protein (CSF), 14-3-3 protein (CSF), RT-QuIC (CSF). At the bottom, it says:

The NPDPSC is able to offer a no-cost autopsy for this patient.

We are already discussing autopsies.

I google NPDPSC because I don’t know what that is. National Prion Disease Pathology Surveillance Center.

“Mommmm, higher!” Grace demands.

“Grace, just a sec.”