Page 90 of Woman on the Verge

I start to peruse the channel listings and have no idea where to find golf. I ask what I know is a stupid question: “Do you remember what number the golf channel is?”

He furrows his brows and says, “Eighty-three?”

I give it a try, and sure enough, he’s right. Then he starts to talk about Phil Mickelson and how he’s from San Diego. For a moment, I’m able to pretend that he is my dad, healthy and normal.

Then he says, “When’s breakfast?”

“Dad, it’s seven o’clock. It’s nighttime. We’re having dinner soon.”

“We are?”

I leave the room when Frank comes to change Dad’s diaper and get him into his wheelchair. Merry has made pesto pasta, garlic bread, and green beans. I put some food on the girls’ plates, knowing this is a fool’s errand, and then sit with them and Merry at the table. Frank wheels out Dad, who glances around the table, apparently surprised to see all of us. What little hair is left on his balding head is wet, noticeably combed. Sweet Frank.

“Nikki, what are you doing here?” my dad says.

“I came up with the girls,” I tell him. I point to each of the girls and say, “Grace and Liv.”

The girls stare, slack jawed. I don’t know if they’ve ever seen someone in a wheelchair before. I did not adequately prepare them for this, mostly because I have not figured out how to adequately prepare myself.

“Hi, girls,” my dad says.

“Hi, Papa!” Grace says, cheerful. I’ve never been more thankful for her exuberance.

Frank sits on the couch in the living room, occupied with his phone, while we eat, which is awkward. If I were Merry, I would invite him to join us, but I’m sure she wants the opportunity to forget she has a caregiver in her house. He’ll go home after getting Dad in bed for the night.

My dad really can’t manage his utensils by himself, but we let him try, his shaky hand maneuvering the fork to the pasta, twirling it once before giving up.

“Want some help, Dad?”

He shrugs likeI suppose I do.

I feed him, exercising the expertise I’ve gained from feeding Grace and Liv. I assume Merry usually does this. Or Frank.

Predictably, the girls eat the garlic bread and nothing else, but I tell them they can have ice cream when Merry presents the option. If the girls look back on this phase of life—which they won’t, because their brains will not preserve any memories of this time—they will think of it as a happy time, a time when they got to eat a lot of fast food and sugary treats. Perhaps it is a mother’s responsibility to foster such blissful ignorance.

As I spoon-feed my dad ice cream, I ask him, “If you could have anything, what would you want?”

I am hoping for one of his rare moments of clarity. I am hoping he will tell us a desire he has for his final days, even though he doesn’t know they are his final days.

“If I could have anything?” he asks.

I nod.

He looks around the table. “This,” he says.

Just as the tears start welling up in my eyes, he farts loudly, and we all laugh.

Merry has placed a full-size mattress on the floor in my bedroom for the girls to sleep on. I change them into their pajamas, which is no small feat because they are overtired and feral. I presume they will awaken me several times during the night. They have never slept side by side like this. I can’t imagine it will go well.

“Mommy?” Grace says, as I tuck her in.

“Yes?”

“What’s wrong with Papa?”

Children, unlike adults, have no problem asking the difficult questions. They do not yet realize what makes certain questions difficult. They are unrestrained in their curiosity, unburdened by social expectations and niceties.

“Well, he’s sick,” I say. “Sometimes when people are sick, they have to be in wheelchairs.”