Page 51 of Woman on the Verge

“Okay,” I said, returning to the previous topic, “how about I disassemble the king bed and move it downstairs?”

I thought Merry would say something like “Don’t be silly, we’ll make do with the queen.” You know, like a normal person.

Instead, she said, “You candothat?” as if reassembling the bed was akin to lifting a car off the ground.

“I think I can figure it out.”

If there’s one thing motherhood has taught me, it’s that I can figure shit out.

She set down her mug, crossed her arms over her chest, and sighed. “Well, I guess that would be fine.”

“Nikki?” Dad said.

“Yeah?”

“Where’s my juice box? I think your phone ate my juice box.”

I didn’t dare look at Merry, couldn’t handle her pleading eyes again.

“I don’t know, Dad. I’ll find it.”

I finished my piece of toast and told them I was going to get started on the bed situation. If this was anything like building an Ikea bookcase for the girls’ room, I was in for a long day.

Five minutes in, I realized that despite my bravado, I would need help. The mattresses were too heavy and awkward for me to maneuver alone, especially on the stairs, so I had to convince Merry to ask Jim to come over. Jim and Alice have lived next door for as long as I can remember. Jim is a big lumberjack of a man. (Though he’s not an actual lumberjack—he’s a high school English teacher. Or he used to be. He’s retired.) He’s in his sixties, but looks fiftysomething. Merry reports that he lifts weights in their garage and goes for daily jogs. Alice is a psychologist who still works, which baffles Merry:They must have more than enough money.They have a daughter in her thirties who teaches at a fancy university in England—Oxford or Cambridge, I can never remember which.

When Jim came over, with Alice in tow, it was immediately obvious that Merry had not told them anything about my dad’s health issues. They seemed alarmed when he attempted to stand from the couch to greet them. (It was a failed attempt. He sat back down before he was fully upright.) Merry did nothing to address their alarm, so I took it upon myself to explain when I got them in the other room.

“He was just diagnosed?” Alice said.

Neither of them had heard of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. I don’t imagine I’ll run into many people in my life who have.

“Yes. On Monday, actually. It’s a really rapid decline, from what I’ve read.”

“Is there a doctor treating him?” Jim asked.

I shook my head. “I don’t think there’s any treatment to be done. We’ll have hospice ... when Merry’s ready for that.”

“Hospice. My god,” Alice said.

Both their faces were long and drawn. I hate pity.

“You’ll need help, dear,” Alice said. “Soon.”

“I’m starting with getting him set up downstairs. One thing at a time, right?”

They nodded in sync.

“Do you want me to look into some options for help?” Alice asked.

“Sure, that would be great.”

She turned to Jim, and they had a mini conference about some friend of theirs named Suzanne who had a great caregiver for her husband, who had Parkinson’s. I busied myself with pulling the sheets off the mattress and folding them.

“So what’s the plan with these beds?” Jim asked. He seemed excited to have a task, to be helpful in a real, tangible way.

I told him about the mattress exchange, and he nodded his understanding, then said, “Let’s do it.” I was grateful for his enthusiasm because I had exactly none.

Alice took on a supervisory role, coaching us down the stairs with the king mattress. Merry just sat on the couch with my dad, turnedaway from the commotion, as if she couldn’t bear to see her life literally being turned upside down.

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