Page 132 of Woman on the Verge

“Do you want me to drive?” he asks.

That would be the wise thing, but my body feels welded to the seat.

“No, that’s okay. You can navigate.”

He nods slowly, a reluctant nod. “Where are we going?”

“I was thinking Half Moon Bay. That’s a nice drive, isn’t it?”

Am I speaking faster than usual? I think I might be. I tell myself to slow down, to sound more normal, to not worry Elijah, the man I may leave my husband for.

“Sure,” he says. “Half Moon Bay.”

His words are careful and measured, like the words of a hostage negotiator speaking with a lunatic wielding a gun.

My dad used to take me to Half Moon Bay. He liked to look at the birds. Half Moon Bay is home to over 20 percent of all North American bird species. At least, that’s what he told me. I don’t want to google it and find out he was wrong or exaggerating or whatever. We would spend hours at Pescadero Marsh or Pillar Point Marsh. He would point out the birds, tell me their names. I would pretend to make mental notes, though the names never settled into my memory.

It’s nighttime. We won’t see any birds. It doesn’t make any logical sense to go to Half Moon Baynow. Elijah knows this, which is why he’s talking to me like I’m an insane person.

We take the 101 to the 380 to the 280. We do not speak until we turn onto CA-35, the highway that leads into the bay.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?” he asks.

“My dad died today.”

I know this is not news to him. I just feel the need to confirm it aloud for myself. It’s strange that in a handful of hours, I will say, “My dad died yesterday.” Then, “My dad died last week.” Then: last month, last year, a few years ago. At some point, the time frame will become irrelevant. It will just beMy dad died. OrMy dad is dead. At some point, I will reach an age when this fact will not be interpreted by others as any kind of tragedy. Perhaps I’m already at that age. I am not a child or a teenager or a college student who has lost her dad. I am a woman in her forties. My dad was in his sixties. He was “elderly.” I am his only child. His death, the tragedy of it, is unique to me, and that is the loneliest feeling in the world.

“I was going through some photos,” I say. “And I found this journal.”

I start to feel dizzy. My vision goes blurry.

“Kat?”

Kat.

Kat.

Who is Kat?

He yells it now: “Kat!”

And then I see why he is yelling. We are veering off the highway. Or I am, I guess. I am the one holding the steering wheel.

I hear my dad’s voice:Look at all the trees, Nikki Bear.

And then all goes black.

Chapter 25

Therese

I am two weeks into my time atCome. It’s more of a retreat than a rehab center, and I want to tell whoever is in charge that they could make a boatload of money with a slight change in their marketing strategy:

Now: You are broken. Let us fix you.

New: The world is broken. Let us love you.

Everything is very structured and predictable, a salve to any anxious nervous system. There are two “betterment activities” each day.

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