Page 29 of Woman on the Verge

They brought my dad the most depressing-looking dinner I’d ever seen—a rubbery piece of chicken, mashed potatoes that appeared gray, an iceberg lettuce salad, and a cookie in plastic wrap.

“How long did you say I had to be here?” he said.

“Not much longer,” I told him. For all I knew, he thought he’d already been there a week.

“But I have to stay the night?”

“Yes,” I said. “You want to watch TV?”

I handed him the remote, found a preseason baseball game on, and watched his eyes lock onto the screen. My dad has always loved watching baseball. He didn’t seem interested in his dinner, understandably, but he appeared content. I felt for the first time that day that I could leave his side.

“Dad, I’m going to head out, but I’ll come by tomorrow, okay?”

“I’m staying here tonight?” he asked.

“Yes.”

I gave him a kiss on the cheek and told him I loved him.

“Love ya, Nikki,” he said. Just like he’s always said.

The bar was a quintessential hole-in-the-wall, and the inside was made to look like a speakeasy. Prisha was already there, sitting on one of the stools at the bar, a martini in front of her. She had the same long, black, shiny hair she’d had in high school, cascading down her back to her waistline. She was wearing a black pantsuit with a plunging neckline, a lacy camisole beneath. She looked so stylish while I looked like a frumpy housewife in my black stretchy pants and an oversize sweater with obvious pilling.

She must have seen me coming out of the corner of her eye because she turned and said, “Nicole Larson.”

I didn’t correct her, didn’t tell her that my last name is now Sanchez, that I completely abandoned my ancestral roots and co-opted my husband’s Mexican identity (well, half-Mexican—his dad is from Guadalajara, his mom from Ohio). It feels like a form of cultural appropriation—me, a Sanchez, with my sandy-blond hair, blue-green eyes, pale skin, and bare-minimum knowledge of the Spanish language. I should have kept my maiden name. Or at the very least, I shouldn’t have felt such glee upon taking Kyle’s. Most women seem to feel this glee at officially being possessed, updating their names on Facebookwithin two hours of their ceremonies. Everyone should just keep their damn names, or hyphenate, or come up with a brand-new name. The brand-new name could be based on one’s occupation or hobby, like in the old days—Blacksmith, Tailor, and so on. Kyle and I could be the Bickerers—Kyle and Nicole Bickerer.

Anyway, I didn’t correct Prisha. I kind of liked that I was still Nicole Larson to her.

“Sit, sit,” she said, moving her purse from the stool next to her. I complied. I was grateful she didn’t require a hug. Like I said, we weren’t reallyfriends. We just ran in the same circle of overachievers. I must be the biggest failure of the bunch.

“This place is perfect for my mood,” I told her.

“Dark and dingy?” she said.

“Exactly.”

She raised her hand to flag down the bartender, a skinny guy with a septum piercing. He tossed a cocktail napkin in front of me.

“Vodka tonic, please,” I said.

She took a sip of her martini and ate one of three olives off her toothpick.

“How’s your dad?” she asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Out of it.”

“So it’s like he’s not even there anymore? Like, mentally?”

I thought of him saying “Love ya, Nikki” and said, “He’s there ... just in one-minute increments.”

“And he repeats things? Seems confused?”

“Yeah. It’s likeGroundhog Day. OrGroundhog Minute, I guess.”

She shook her head. “And it’s just you taking care of things? You don’t have siblings, right?”

“Just me.”

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