Page 125 of Woman on the Verge

“Merry?” I call.

I find her in Dad’s room, stripping the hospital bed.

“Hey,” I say.

She doesn’t look up, just keeps bustling about, now making piles of all the hospice supplies on the floor.

“I want this stuff out of here,” she says.

She unplugs the oxygen machine, wraps the cord around her hands in a tight circle, then rolls the machine into the hallway.

“Okay,” I say. What else is there to say? “I’ll get a couple trash bags.”

We use one trash bag for actual trash, the other for items we plan to donate to nursing homes—diapers, gloves, bandages. I don’t know why she wants to do thisright now, but I can tell it’s making her feel better. At the very least it’s forcing pent-up energy out of her body, freeing her.

After a couple of hours, we have everything organized. Merry sends an email to the hospice company, tells them she needs them to pick up their equipment as soon as possible.

“All right,” she says, hands on hips, her face covered in a thin sheen of sweat, “that’s done.”

I suggest we eat some breakfast, and she looks at me like she’s never heard of breakfast before.

“I’ll make us some coffee and toast,” I say, “something easy.”

She agrees, reluctantly. We sit at the kitchen table, sipping our coffee, taking small bites of our toast. At seven, there is a knock at thedoor, and I briefly fantasize about it being the mortuary people, saying my dad came to life in the back of the van and is miraculously healed.

The mind is capable of crazy things.

But it’s just Frank. He’s here for his workday. Nobody from the hospice company has told him Dad died.

“Morning!” he says with his usual joviality.

His face falls when he takes in our faces. We must look completely wrecked.

“Oh no,” he says.

He goes to my dad’s room, then comes back.

“No,” he says.

I nod. He comes to us, his arms outstretched, with the clear intention to take us both in. Merry and I allow this. Frank’s arms are thick, and his body is warm, and it is just what we need.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, pulling away from the embrace after a few moments. His eyes are wet with tears. He is shocked too. Even the professionals are not spared.

Merry asks him to help her wheel the hospital bed into the hallway. It is not a logical task to insist upon. The hospice company said they would come tomorrow or the day after to take away all the equipment. Merry must feel the need to make progress of some kind, any kind. Frank does not question her. I’ve found most men are also comforted by progress making, especially in times of unfixable despair.

I sit on the couch.

This is the first time I’m sitting on a couch without my father being alive,I think.

How many of these types of thoughts will I have in the coming days?

This is the first shower I’ve taken as someone without a living father.

This is the first dinner I’ve eaten without my father on earth.

This is the first time I’ve had sex since my father died.

Life has been cleaved into before and after. I feel as if I am standing at the precipice of a great unknown.

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