Page 73 of Woman on the Verge

I can’t say I thought much about what I wanted in a husband or if Kyle checked those boxes. I loved him. He loved me. Marriage was a romantic notion, this idea of us continuing to grow together—buying a house, having kids, accumulating all the components of the American dream. This was what we’d been instructed to desire. We didn’t know to want anything else. Even now, I’m not sure Kyle would want anything else. He’s happy enough, aside from the less-than-active sex life. It’s me that’s the problem.

In those early days, I liked being married. I liked the ring on my finger that alerted anyone near me that I had successfully achieved this life event. I liked sayinghusbandandwife. I would call Kyle at work sometimes just to say “Hi, husband, it’s your wife.” I bought an apron with polka dots and a Betty Crocker cookbook. I had dinner ready when he got home from work.

I got my first ad-agency job via Kyle’s boss’s wife, who was a creative director looking for graphic design talent. Before long, Kyle and I weretwo business professionals with a promising future. There was never a doubt we wanted kids, but Kyle wanted a house first, so we worked and saved for a down payment. He got a job offer in Orange County, at another prestigious pharmaceutical company, the one he still works for. We moved there, finally bought a house. I was ready to try for a baby, but he wanted to wait until he was established enough to “take paternity leave in good conscience.”

When we finally started trying, we had no luck for a year, at which point the doctors gave me a diagnosis of “unexplained infertility.” It was during the sadness of this time that I realized that Kyle and I hadn’t been through anything truly difficult before. In response to my sadness, the likes of which he’d never seen before, he worked more. I remember having passing thoughts about whether or not we would make it through this. Then, a year later, I got pregnant, and any doubts I’d had were replaced with all the plans and preparations for parenthood.

My dad is in a wheelchair now. It’s a clunky, heavy old thing with a wonky wheel. The hospice company dropped it off along with a pack of adult diapers.

“He needs diapers now?” I say to Merry, just above a whisper because my dad, who is fast becoming an invalid, is sitting just a few feet away at the kitchen table.

“Not quite yet, but I think we’re getting close.”

The depressions under Merry’s eyes look deeper, darker. It is as if she has aged ten years just since last week.

When my dad reaches for his coffee mug, his hand is shaky. It’s obvious that it takes a good deal of concentration for him to move his fingers around the mug’s handle. I wonder when he’ll no longer be able to grip it himself, when he’ll need a sippy cup like his granddaughters do.

“How’s your oatmeal, Dad?” I ask him, as if it’s any other day, as if Merry and I aren’t over here talking about when he’ll become incontinent.

“Good!” He remains upbeat, chipper even.

He glances at the whiteboard in front of him. It says,Nicole is here today. When I woke up this morning, I drew a heart on it and wrote, “I love you, Dad.”

“Hey, it says here that Nicole is here today.” He looks up, sees me. The gears of his brain lock into place for a moment. “And there you are!”

“Here I am,” I say.

“When did you get here?”

He’s asked me this three times already.

“It’s Saturday morning,” I say, reminding him, though it says it right there on the board. “I got in last night.”

“From Rhode Island?”

“Rob, she hasn’t lived in Rhode Island in years,” Merry snaps. It’s irrational to snap. We both know he’s not trying to be difficult. She’s just had it.

“I drove up from Orange County, where I live with Kyle and the girls.”

“Yes! Right!” He says it as if we are playing charades and he has just guessed what I’ve been miming.

“How’s your car running?” he asks, which is his way of inquiring about my general well-being.

“Good, Dad, good.”

He eats a few more bites of oatmeal and then sits back in his wheelchair with a satisfied sigh.

“That sun feels good, doesn’t it?” he says, closing his eyes as beams of light come through the window, streaking his face.

Merry starts clearing the table.

“He’s been sleeping a lot more,” she says. “He’s really only awake for about an hour for meals, then back to bed.”

Sure enough, a few seconds later, his head is hanging, lolling about above his chest.

Merry starts cleaning the dishes. I hold a towel, ready to dry.

“Sometimes I just let him sleep right there like that. I don’t know how I can keep helping him in and out of bed, in and out of the wheelchair.”

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