Page 105 of Woman on the Verge

“Am I a terrible person?”

His mouth opens slightly, but he doesn’t respond. Then, a moment later, he whispers something I can’t quite hear.

“What did you say?” I lean closer, close enough to smell the musty odor that is his breath, the smell of decay.

His eyes finally shift and meet mine.

“Rose?” he says.

Rose was my mother.

Again, I don’t question him. I just say, “Yes?”

“I love you, Rose.”

I wonder if he sees her waiting for him in the rain. I don’t ask. It doesn’t matter.

“I love you, Dad,” I say.

I wait until after dinner to text Elijah.

Hey. Sorry. Been such a strange, hard day.

Him: I’ve been thinking of you. If you’re not up for getting together tomorrow, I understand. I just want to support you however I can

I have received no texts from Kyle, for the record. If I make a thing about this to him, he will say, “I assumed if you wanted to talk, you would text me.” He has informed me before that he is “not a mind reader.”

I definitely want to see you. Need to see you. You are a portal back to myself and all that is good in this bizarre life

I may have had too much wine at dinner.

Him: I can’t wait to hold you

I can’t wait to be held

Amid all the lies, that is a truth. I cannot wait to be held.

That’s what he does the moment I show up at his door—he holds me. He pulls me against his chest, kisses the top of my head, and holds me. I start to cry—not dainty feminine tears but big ugly bawling that I didn’t even know I had in me.

“I’m here,” he says.

That fact, and my gratitude for it, makes me cry harder.

He does something I would normally consider weird—he lifts me off the ground and cradles me in his arms like I’m his child. He is a large enough man for this to be possible, and it feels right and good. He carries me to the bedroom, places me on the bed. The room is dimly lit by candles—it’s a dreary San Francisco day, not much light streaming through the windows. I am overcome with a sudden desire to sleep—not just a nap, but a multiday coma-like event.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I tell him once I’ve composed myself.

He lies next to me.

“I do,” he says. “Your dad is dying.”

I stare at the ceiling, then think of my dad staring at the ceiling, seeing rain. This makes me cry all over again.

He traces the shape of my face with his fingertip.

“I’m sorry. I know you had something planned for us, and—”

He shushes me, just like he did when I was blindfolded.

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