Page 84 of Woman on the Verge

He lifts one of his biceps, flexes. “I work out every day. I can assure you your dad will be in good hands.”

He takes it upon himself to show me his hands. They are large and capable looking, which I guess is his point.

He asks if I have any questions for him, so I ask how he got into caregiving. He says he was living at home in his twenties when his mom got cancer, and he took care of her until the end. That experience made him think he wanted to do the same service for others.

“My heart’s as big as my hands.”

I decide he does not seem like the “stealing type.” He seems like the type who will volunteer to be a mall Santa Claus when he gets older.

“I’m assuming they told you what my dad has?” I ask.

I glance up at the girls to see if they are listening to the conversation. They are still enthralled with the Cinderella story. I haven’t said anything to them yet about their papa dying. I have been meaning to google tips for having such a conversation.

“They did,” Frank says, nodding his head solemnly. “Can’t say I’d ever heard of it, but I looked it up online. What a terrible thing. I’m so sorry.”

He looks as if he might cry, and I have no idea how someone with such a sensitive constitution can do this job.

“So you can start right away?” I ask.

“I can. Just finished up another job.”

I take it that “finished up” means his prior client died. Perhaps it would be a good thing to become so intimately acquainted with death, to be up close with it so often that it loses its power to surprise and devastate.

“That’s great. I’ll be up there this weekend, so I can meet you in person then. Do you have any questions for me? I want to be the point of contact for you. Meredith is dealing with so much.”

“Of course, understood. Just a couple questions for you. Does your dad like music?”

“He does.”

“Great, I think it helps them to listen to music.”

Them.The dying, he means.

“He likes classic rock mostly. Anything from the sixties.”

“Sounds like my type of guy.”

“He’s most people’s type of guy,” I say.

Now I feel like I might cry. My throat tightens just like it did when I was with Elijah.

Grace, ever perceptive, looks at me with a level of concern that scares the tears back into their ducts.

“Mommy, what’s wrong?” she asks.

I read something a while back that said to validate your children when they correctly identify an emotion in you. So if you’re angry and they say, “Why are you angry?” don’t say “I’m not angry.” Apparently, doing so teaches them not to trust their perceptions, and then they go through life as confused, lost, empty vessels waiting to be preyed upon by ill-intentioned cult leaders who thrive on others’ vulnerabilities. It’s an interesting concept, but I’m not sure I buy it. Weren’t we all raised by parents lying to our faces?

In any case, I don’t say “Nothing’s wrong,” which is what I want to say. Instead, I say, “I’m just a bit sad.”

“Is that your little girl?” Frank says as Grace scoots over on the bench seat to be next to me, her little hand patting my back. I do not understand how she can be both an empath and a sociopath.

“Yes, this is Grace,” I tell him. “Grace, this is Frank.”

Grace does her wave where she flaps her fingers into her palm. Now Liv climbs down from her seat and comes to sit on the other side of me.

“Oh, wow, you’ve got two of them,” Frank says.

He is beaming. Frank would probably be a good dad.

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