Page 116 of Woman on the Verge

“You look like a runway model,” I tell him.

We’ve always preferred levity in times of crisis.

“Daddy,” I say, leaning in close to his ear, my lips already quivering. “You’ve been such a good dad. You know that, right? I love you so much.”

His lips part as if he may want to say something back, his usual “Love ya,” perhaps. But no sound comes. I stare at his mouth, which is slightly agape, notice that his bottom front teeth are chipped, something I’d never noticed before. He’s always been a chronic nail-biter. When I was a teenager, he let me paint his nails pink in an attempt to help him quit.

“I hope it doesn’t hurt you when they use this lift thing,” I say. “I’m sure you just want to rest in bed.”

He gives a barely perceptible shake of his head, as if rejecting the notion that he is at all bothered by the lift or anything else that’s happening to him. He’s never been one to admit struggle.

When Frank returns, I help him slide the sling under my dad’s body—no easy feat. When he’s securely latched to the lift, I watch as Frank operates the machine, my dad’s body slowly levitating off the bed, his knees pulled into his chest. Suspended in the air, he looks like a baby in a blanket held in the stork’s beak. He looks as if he is about to be delivered, and maybe he is. Maybe that’s what death is—a delivery.

I admit it is nice to have him at the dinner table, even if he sits in silence. I remember what the hospice nurse said about him being able to hear.

“You know what one of my favorite dad memories is?” I say to Merry.

She has made us plates of chicken and rice, but she is just pushing her food around her plate with her fork, creating labyrinths through the rice.

“Hmm?” she asks, not looking up.

“Remember when he was in his running phase?” I ask.

It was when I was eleven or twelve, that awkward transition between child and teenager, between thinking your parents are cool and thinking they are absolutely mortifying. My dad had become something of a runner, signing up for local 5Ks. I vacillated between standing on the sidelines, cheering him on, and staying as far away from the races as possible, worried someone from school would see me with him while he was wearing his dorky sweatband and matching athletic socks.

“I do remember,” Merry says with a wistful smile. “He was in the best shape of his life then.”

During my freshman year of high school, he signed up for the San Francisco Marathon. He’d run every morning before the sun came up. I remember the sound of the door closing behind him when he sneaked out in those early hours. When I heard him come back, that served as my alarm telling me to wake up. He’d make breakfast for Merry and me, usually still wearing his running clothes, then shower and get ready for his workday while we ate. I knew it was a big deal, this race, the trainingand dedication involved. But I was also a new teenager and couldn’t be bothered to give many things beyond myself much attention.

“Remember that one morning . . .”

I start laughing before I can even continue, the mental image of the story I’m about to recount triggering instant glee.

Merry looks confused for just a few seconds, and then it clicks for her, and she can’t help but laugh too.

“The shorts!” she says.

My dad always wore these short shorts—another reason I didn’t want to be seen with him at races. On this one morning, I came into the kitchen while he was making breakfast after his run and found him wearing the shorts inside out, with the hammock-like netting on the outside. At first, I wasn’t sure what I was looking at, but then Merry came in behind me and laughed harder than I’d ever heard her laugh. She doubled over, one arm clutching her stomach. It took her a solid five minutes to catch her breath.

“Didn’t you realize you had no ... support ... down there?” she said, before erupting in laughter again.

“I get dressed in the dark,” he protested. “Because I don’t want to wake you by turning on the light.”

“And I appreciate that almost as much as I appreciate this sight before my eyes,” she said.

I laughed along with her. “Did you notice anybody giving you weird looks?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

Merry and I laughed about that for days. We begged him to wear his shorts inside out for the marathon, told him he would get more enthusiastic cheers from the crowds that way.

“You girls are ridiculous,” he said.

I look to Dad’s face now and think I see a small smile there. Maybe I’m imagining it.

“I was so proud of you when you ran that marathon, Dad,” I say to him.

His head bobs a little, a nod, maybe.

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