Page 14 of Woman on the Verge

“His walking?” I asked.

My mind started racing then. My first thought: brain tumor.

“He’s completely unsteady on his feet,” she said, still exasperated.

“How long has he been like this?”

“I don’t know. A few weeks?” she said. “He said he thinks he hit his head while retrieving a golf ball.”

“What?”

“He said he thinks he hit his head—”

“Mer, I heard you. What do you mean he hit his head?”

“Well, I guess one of his balls went in someone’s yard and he hopped the fence—”

“Dad hopped a fence?”

My dad has always been in good shape, but I had a hard time picturing this.

“I wasn’t there, so I don’t know. This is what he said, although now he doesn’t remember saying it.”

“And he fell?”

“Apparently.”

“And he hit his head?”

“I wasn’t there, Nicole. But it stands to reason.”

“And now he’s having memory issues and trouble walking?”

“Yes.”

“When was this fall?”

“I have no idea. He has no idea.”

Now it was my turn to sigh.

“You need to see a doctor. Is Dad there now? I’ll tell him.”

“He’s upstairs. Hold on.”

It sounded like she yelled directly into the phone: “Rob! Nicole’s on the phone.”

I heard the click of a new line. They still use landline phones—archaic and charming.

“Nikki!” my dad boomed. He is the only person who calls me Nikki.

“Hey, Dad,” I said. “How you doing?”

“Well, I’m great.” He sounded jovial, as usual. My dad has always served as a counterbalance to Merry, who thinks life is just one inconvenience and disappointment after another (ironic, considering her name).

“Merry said you went golfing today?”

“Not today. She mistakenly thinks I golf every day when I do not.”

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