Page 91 of Woman on the Verge

Liv looks at me wide eyed. I have no idea if she’s following along with this conversation.

“It’s hard to hear him,” Grace says.

“I know. He’s very weak.”

“Is he going to die?”

Grace has just started exploring the concept of death, mostly by pointing to bugs on the ground and saying things like “Aww, he died. His battery ran out. I hope he had a good life.” I’ve started googling how to discuss death with young children, and the key, supposedly, is to be very direct and literal. I should not say things like “We lost him” or “He passed away” or “He’s in a better place” because all these things are very confusing to a little person. I can already imagine the questions I’d be bombarded with if I tried to use vague language:YouLosthim?Where is he? How do we find him? Can we visit the better place? Do you have pictures of it on your phone?

“He is going to die,” I say, taking Google’s advice. I swallow back follow-up statements, attempts to soften what must be a horrific blow.

“Oh” is all she says.

Then: “Where will he go?”

“Well, some believe people go to heaven.”

She nods. She seems familiar with the idea of heaven, probably thanks to YouTube.

“Am I going to die?” she asks.

I glance to Liv, who is starting to doze off.

“All living things die. But you will not die for a very, very long time.”

Grace starts crying. I’m afraid she’ll wake up her sister, but Liv seems undisturbed.

“Are there toys in heaven?” Grace sobs.

I pull her into my body, kiss her soft cheek.

“I think anything you want to be in heaven is in heaven.”

The truth is I think heaven is a story mortals tell themselves to keep their fears at bay. But if believing in it makes my children happy, then color me a believer.

Grace takes a deep breath and appears accepting of my answer. I feel like a good mom for a single invigorating moment.

“Can you tell me a story?” she asks.

God, I hate telling stories.

“Okay,” I say and make up some nonsense about fairies in a garden with magic paintbrushes.

At some point in the night, both girls come into my bed, one on each side of me, causing me to sleep as if I’m wearing a straitjacket. I wake up sweaty and tired but also ecstatic because I get to see Elijah today.

Frank is already here when I come downstairs. Merry is making coffee. I turn on the TV in the living room, put on a show for the girls, then go check on my dad.

I find him sitting on the commode, totally naked. I start to turn away, to give him privacy, but he says, “Oh, hey, Nikki,” as if it’s not at all weird that I am looking at him as he sits on a toilet.

“Hey, Dad.”

Naked, he looks so frail. He’s lost so much muscle mass. His formerly thick and sturdy thighs are sinewy and weak.

“When did you get here?”

“Yesterday.”

Frank comes in and says, “Oh, yeah, he’ll sit there a while. I don’t think you can tell when you poop, can you, Rob?”

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