Page 8 of Woman on the Verge

I lost the plot of what I was listening to the moment I drove underneath the overpass connecting the 5 freeway to the 73 toll road. About a month before, during the Car Nap, this section of the freeway was at a standstill, which led to various whispered curses flying from my mouth. As the traffic inched along, I saw police cars on the overpass, next to a tan minivan parked on the shoulder with the driver’s side door open. The southbound side of the freeway was completely closed, empty of cars. When I got closer, I saw why—a white sheet draped over what I’d later learn was the body of a woman who had jumped to her death. I couldn’t—and still can’t—drive by that overpass without thinking of her. She was thirty-seven. Her name wasn’t published. I thought of that minivan, wondered if she had kids, if she was a stay-at-home mother.

I looked back at the girls again. Still sleeping, open mouthed, doe-like eyelashes fluttering, fleetingly angelic. Nothing has ever made me sochoked up as marveling at the innocence of my daughters. Is this why we have children, to reconnect with the purity we lose to the world?

I shut off the audiobook because I couldn’t focus, and turned to my next recurrent thought process: leaving Kyle. It’s actually more like daydreaming than thinking. There’s a rosy glow to the visions—me as an empowered single mother in a cozy townhouse, utterly exhausted by “doing it all,” but in a kind of romantic way. Life, after all, would not be logistically easier if I left Kyle. I would be truly alone, as opposed to justfeelingalone. Maybe that would be better, though. As it is, he’sthere, so I can’t help but expect more from him. If he wasn’t there, the burden of expectation would be gone.

In my visions, the girls and I would bond, cuddling on the couch together after our long days. It would be veryGilmore Girls. I would cherish our time together more because there would be less of it. Kyle and I would agree to fifty-fifty custody because we are decent, fair-minded people. We would commit to always putting the girls first. With my sudden influx of free time, I would have the opportunity to relax, to work, to have coherent thoughts, to read a goddamn book, to do yoga and banish my fanny pack of fat. And I would have the opportunity to miss the girls. Every mother should experience the complex luxury of missing her children from time to time.

On this day, I enumerated grievances in my mind. I thought of how, while I’m making dinner, Kyle watches reruns of that tasteless show with the comedian who makes jokes about YouTube videos. I thought about how he complains when I do meatless Mondays. I thought of how when I ask him to make dinner, he does something like salmon with a cream sauce, even though I’ve mentioned how I feel about combining fish and dairy. I thought of how he goes for early runs without asking for permission. I would ask for his permission if I wanted to go for a run because I would consider the impact of my absence, how it would give him the responsibility of getting the girls up for the day. He never seems to consider the impact of his absence. I thought of how he hates when I use lube for sex, even though I tellhim I need it because of dryness related to the probable perimenopause. I thought of how he never asks what that’s like for me—to lose my youth, to have that lovely rug pulled out from under me. I thought of his stupid coed softball team and how he kept right on playing after the girls were born. I thought of how his leisure is a given and mine is gone. I thought of how we are always jockeying for position. I thought of how I never win. I thought of how we are not partners; we are adversaries.

Just as I concluded that this was the definition ofirreconcilable differences, a cry came from the back seat. I could feel my blood pressure rising. Sometimes I wonder how close I am to a stroke.

“Mommy?” Grace whined.

It was too soon for her to wake up. I usually get a full hour of quiet. I didn’t respond, in hopes she’d fall back asleep.

“Mommy?” she said, louder this time.

I shushed her, gripping the steering wheel tighter in anticipation of her waking Liv.

“It’s not time to wake up, sweetie,” I whispered.

She shrieked and thrashed as if she were a caged animal in need of escape.

“I don’t want these,” she said, pushing against the straps of her car seat.

In the rearview mirror, I saw Liv’s eyes blink open. She appeared confused before her face scrunched into a look of utter despair. She began wailing as Grace attempted to get out of her car seat. She’d done this before, a Houdini-like maneuver that caused me to summon a yell from deep in my core, something that could only be described as a roar.

“Grace, no. We’re on the freeway,” I said/roared. I did my best to sound calm. Three-year-olds are no different from people on ledges.

“I wantout!” she said, kicking the back of the seat.

Liv wailed louder.

I had no choice but to get off the freeway, to relinquish my hour of peace.

But then I decided I did have a choice.

I decided that I would go home and I would tell Kyle to watch the girls for a half hour while I ... did something. Or nothing. In silence. And if he hesitated, just the slightest bit, I would tell him it was over. I imagined the conversation:

It’s over, Kyle.

What’s over?

This. Us. It’s bullshit. I’m done.

What are you even talking about?

He would probably say that last part with a little laugh meant to poke fun at my hysterics. Then he would hammer the nail in his coffin by telling me to calm down.

My heart pounded as I drove through our neighborhood, wondering if he’d want to keep the house, or if we’d sell it and split the proceeds. Would I stay in this neighborhood? If not, where would I go? How would our divorce affect the girls? Were there therapists for toddlers?

“Where are we going?” Grace asked.

“Home,” I said.

“But I want ice cream.”

“Ask Daddy when we get home. He can take you.”

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