Page 83 of Woman on the Verge

I fear if I get into one of the programs, I will resent Nicole for being the reason I cannot go.

What is better for Nicole? To know her mother pursued a dream? Or to know her mother gave up all to parent?

My own mother is the model of martyrdom. Many mothers are.

My own mother dropped out of college and married my father. She will never admit to any regret, but I wonder.

I thought I had transcended what she never did. I went to college. And here I am, a housewife, a stay-at-home mother, just as she was.

Would I be in this quandary if I had seen my mother pursue her own dreams, if that example had been set? Would I be married? Would I have Nicole?

It’s tempting to tell myself I will be doing Nicole a favor if I pursue my studies and my happiness. How easily I can twist things to my benefit! I may be what society says is the worst kind of a woman—a selfish one.

The purpose of applying is not to actually go. Of course, if I get in, I fear I will forget the original purpose. I will want to go. There will be no denying it.

Chapter 16

Nicole

Merry wants me to interview the prospective caretaker for my dad over Zoom. Kyle is on an important work call, so I have given the girls the iPad, along with their favorite yogurt tubes and banana slices in the shape of a happy face, in hopes that they will be quiet and well behaved.

Usually when I see myself on Zoom, I am so horrified that I select the option that enables me not to view myself, and then, during the call, I google the cost of dermal fillers (insanely expensive). Today, though, I look decent. Could it be possible that Elijah has brought color to my cheeks? Or am I just viewing myself—and the surrounding world—through rose-tinted glasses now that I have a man in my life who adores me for reasons I am no longer interested in questioning?

“Mom, I don’t want to eat aFace,” Grace says, expressing horror at the banana slices before her.

She has eaten banana slices in the shape of a happy face many times a week for the past two years.

“Um, okay,” I say, taking the plate from her. I will not let this get to me. “How about a heart?”

I rearrange the slices into the shape of a heart and pass it back across the table to her.

“Wow, how did you do that so fast?”

It does not take much to anger or impress a child.

“Mommy is magical,” Liv says.

That’s a big word for her—magical. She knows it because I read them a book calledMy Mommy Is Magical.

“Okay, girls, Mommy has a call, remember?” I say, my voice annoyingly high pitched. Sometimes, it’s not just that I hate mothering but also that I hate who I am as a mother. Maybe it’s more that than anything.

They turn their attention to the iPad. They are watching a strange retelling of “Cinderella,” and one of the characters says, “But your life will be nothing without the prince,” and I worry for their future aspirations.

The prospective caregiver is named Frank. Merry met him in person and said he seemed “fine,” but she felt I should also talk to him before she agreed to have him in their home on a mostly full-time basis.

“I need you to tell me if he seems like the stealing type,” she said.

I was surprised when she said the caregiver was a he, and not just any he, but a he with the name Frank. It’s hard to picture anything besides a gruff middle-aged man with an expansive waistline. I don’t know what such a person would be doing working for a caregiving agency for eighteen bucks an hour.

When he comes onto the screen, he is nothing like what I’ve pictured. He is not middle aged. He’s about my age—fortyish. Which, I guess, might be middle aged, considering life expectancy in the United States is right around eighty. My mind starts to wander, considering whether or not this thing with Elijah is some kind of midlife crisis, exacerbated by my father dying and my daughters annihilating my mental health. Before I can travel too far down that dark and dank rabbit hole, Frank speaks:

“Hello there. You must be Nicole.”

He has a southern accent. The surprises keep coming.

After we exchange pleasantries, he says, “The agency thought I would be a good fit. Your dad’s not a small guy, ya know? Those four-foot-tall ladies aren’t gonna cut it with him.”

His laugh is big, hearty. I laugh along with him.