Page 88 of Woman on the Verge

My mind races as I consider the logistics. Merry and my dad would like to see the girls. It’s been so long. Will my dad even remember them? Some of his long-term memory appears to be intact, but who knows? What will I tell the girls about him being in a wheelchair? Is there any conceivable way I could still see Elijah? Would it be possible to enjoy Elijah if I knew my daughters were just a handful of miles away?

“I’ll ask Merry what she thinks,” I say. “Might be a bit much to have the girls in the house with my dad and Frank.”

“Who’s Frank?”

I’m reminded that Kyle and I really do not talk to each other about our lives anymore.

“The caregiver.”

“The caregiver is named Frank?”

I text Merry:

Looks like Kyle has some food poisoning. What if I brought the girls up with me?

It sometimes takes Merry several hours to respond to a text, but she responds right away this time. I imagine her sitting next to my dad at the kitchen table, passing time on her phone.

Merry: Oh, I bet your dad would love to see them! And me too, of course

I think about how to propose this next part. It’s not something I would even consider proposing if Frank wasn’t on the scene, but he is. And I need to see Elijah.

Feel free to say no, but would it be too much to ask if you watch the girls overnight so I can visit with Prisha again? It’s just that I’ve had so little time to myself ...

The self-pitying martyr act is very unbecoming, but it’s the only tactic I can think of right now, and it’s one Merry, like most women, is familiar with herself.

Merry: Sure! I don’t see why not!

It’s settled then.

Okay. We’ll get on the road soon. Will probably have to make a few stops along the way

And bya few, I mean three hundred. This drive is going to be hell. I can barely maintain sanity after an hour in the car with the girls, and this will be several hours. If thoughts of Elijah can sustain me through this, then I need to find a way to continue this affair indefinitely, or at least until the girls have moved out of the house.

Merry: Drive safe!

When I tell Grace and Liv that we are going on a trip to see Papa and Grandma Merry, they both start jumping up and down and screaming “Trip! Trip! Trip!” This enthusiasm is likely to carry us through the firsthalf hour, at which point they will get restless and bored. I charge the iPad and pack an entire duffel bag with snacks, games, and toys from my “emergency stash” (which is basically a box of toys the girls do not know I have that I keep hidden in the master closet for times in which my mental health depends on their entertainment).

I throw together a bag of clothes, pull-ups, stuffed animals, and a multitude of must-have blankets. It’s all very rushed and manic. Then I text Elijah:

I think I’m good to come up!

He sends back a party-hat emoji.

Him: I promise to take excellent care of you

You better

We leave the house just after ten o’clock in the morning, and the girls are surprisingly well behaved until we hit the Los Angeles County line. At that point, it’s about time for lunch, so we do the McDonald’s drive-through, and I get them Happy Meals, hoping they live up to their names. They do, thankfully, and then Liv falls asleep. Grace sits with her eyes wide open, resisting the nap, until she finally nods off.

They wake up just as we pass through Santa Barbara. We make a bathroom stop and get ice cream cones. I text Elijah.

Can’t wait to see you. Feeling so much better now

Him: So glad to hear it. I want to trace your whole body with my fingertips

Just that text is enough to keep me content through the next four hours of driving, which include a chorus of whining, interrupted only by occasional silences when the girls are engaged with something on the iPad.

At five o’clock, I stop at McDonald’s again because I really don’t care what they eat as long as they eat without complaint. There is still mild complaining with the Happy Meals—Liv says the chicken nuggets are too hot, and Grace says her apple slices are slimy—but they are mostly appreciative of the indulgence.

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