Page 74 of Woman on the Verge

She puts a hand to her lower back, rubs.

I say, “I can help, for today at least.”

“And then there’s tomorrow and the next day and the next,” she says with a sigh.

I keep wondering if I should bring the girls up with me and just stay indefinitely, compromise my own sanity for the good of the group. It’s that or convince Merry to get daily professional help, soon.

I wheel Dad to the downstairs bedroom as he sleeps with his chin on his chest. I park the wheelchair at the side of his bed and rub his shoulders in an attempt to rouse him. I massage his bald head, as if a genie will appear to grant me my wish to make all of this not real.

“Okay, Dad, time to get into bed.”

Merry sighs. “He won’t be able to help much.”

“Is it nighttime?” Dad asks.

“No, Dad. Just time for a nap.”

He doesn’t protest. He puts his hands on the armrests of the wheelchair to push himself up. But once again, Merry is right—he can’t help much.

“Alice said there’s some kind of belt we can get to help pull him up,” Merry says. “I need to ask the hospice people about that.”

“A belt?” Dad says. “I have lots of belts.”

“Not that kind of belt, Rob,” Merry says.

I put both arms around his middle, help him stand. He is wobbly, but he is upright. Merry stands back, supervises, looking slightlynervous. I have no idea how she’s been doing this by herself, even if just for a few days.

“Okay, Dad, the bed is just right here.”

All he has to do is turn his body ninety degrees and fall back. But shuffling his feet to turn that ninety degrees takes a painfully long time.

“All right, now fall back,” I tell him when he’s aligned properly with the bed.

He looks at me like Grace and Liv look at me, his eyes saying,Am I going to be okay? Am I doing this right?

“You’re okay, Dad,” I tell him.

He falls back onto the bed. I help him swing his legs up and pull the comforter over his body so just his head is showing.

“You comfy?” I ask him.

“I am.”

His eyes start to glaze over with fatigue.

“Can I get in next to you?” I ask him.

He’s already asleep. I get in anyway, my body curled up next to his.

“I’ll leave you two,” Merry whispers and closes the door behind her.

I listen to my dad’s breaths, feel the warmth and solidity of his body. Tears come when I remember the impermanence of these things. I dry my cheeks with the edge of the pillowcase.

“I’m going to miss you,” I whisper.

He doesn’t respond, but I like to think he hears me anyway.

I nod off for a bit and am awakened by my phone buzzing with a text message.