Page 23 of Woman on the Verge

I am not above adding my own passive-aggressive periods to text messages.

I headed downstairs and found my dad and Merry in the kitchen, having their morning coffee. Merry had the crossword in front of her, and my dad had the newspaper, both wearing reading glasses that they probably got in a multipack from Costco. It all looked so normal that I forgot anything was wrong.

“Good morning,” I said, with more energy than I’d had in months (years, maybe) due to the uninterrupted nine hours of sleep.

“Good morning, dear,” Merry said.

“Nikki, what are you doing here?” my dad asked, genuinely dumbstruck. It was the genuineness of it that made my heart contract. His memory, at least his short-term memory, seemed to be really and truly gone.

“I got in last night, Dad,” I said.

“You did?”

He didn’t seem bothered by his forgetfulness, more in awe of it, likeGolly, would you look at that?

“You were tired,” I said, making excuses for him because it seemed like the kindest thing I could do.

“You’re going to the doctor today,” Merry said to him.

“The doctor? For what?”

I reminded him of the memory issues, the walking issues. He seemed upset, but then quickly moved on:

“You want some eggs?” he asked, starting to stand from his chair.

Merry and I went to him, told him to please sit.

“I can make my own eggs, Dad,” I said. “You just relax.”

My phone buzzed with a text. Kyle.

The ER? I hope everything isOk.

Wasn’t it obvious that things were not okay at all? I decided to change the subject and focus on what I really needed from him—care of the girls.

Did you brush Grace’s molars really well?

I asked this not only because my father was a dentist and it’s ingrained in me to care about such things, but also because Grace has hypoplasia, which means her teeth enamel is weak and she is prone to cavities. The dentist asked if she’d been sick a lot as a baby, as that can be related to the development of this particular dental calamity. She was in day care, so of course she was sick a lot as a baby. As I spiraled into feeling guilty about this, the dentist, who must have seen the worry on my face, said, “Oh, Mama, don’t feel bad.” My dad said the same—“Don’t feel bad, Nic.” But I did. And I still do. Grace has already had two cavities, one the dentist described as “craterous.” She will need either a crown or a root canal once she’s old enough to, as the dentist put it, “withstand the procedure.”

Kyle responded:

Yes.

It would have made me feel better if he’d elaborated—and he must have known this—but he did not. I fantasized about him praising me:I really had no idea how intense this teeth-brushing thing is! All those cheese puffs really do get stuck in there, don’t they? I always thought you were overreacting, but no! Thank you for caring for our daughters’ teeth up to this point! I am forever in your debt!!

Then I laughed at myself.

“Maybe I should come to the hospital,” Merry said to me.

“The hospital?” my dad said.

“Merry, just let me take him. We’ll be fine.”

“Make sure you tell the doctors about how he fell and possibly hit his head,” she said, talking about him as if he weren’t right next to her.

“Huh?” my dad said.

I beat three eggs in a bowl and then poured them into the hot, oiled pan.

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