Page 76 of Woman on the Verge

“A what?”

“I’m teasing you.”

I gather all the nail clippings and dispose of them in the bathroom trash can.

“You ready for some lunch?” I ask him.

“It’s lunchtime?”

It’s just after eleven. “Close enough,” I say.

I am used to this, the structuring of days around mealtimes.

“Okay then.”

I help him sit, then turn so his legs are off the bed, feet touching the floor. The wheelchair is parked in position. I stand in front of him, grab onto his wrists. His hands clutch my wrists in return.

“One, two, three,” I say.

The effort is mostly mine. My lower back complains, but I try to smile. My dad would never want to burden me.

I have broken a sweat by the time he is upright. I help him turn ninety degrees, his feet shuffling an inch at a time. The whole process, a process I would perform myself within seconds, takes about five minutes. It’s excruciating, reminiscent of watching Grace trying to put on a shirt herself and sticking her arm through the neck hole repeatedly, or watching Liv stab the same piece of elbow macaroni with a fork, unable to get it.

“Okay, Dad, now fall back.”

I think of the patience I’ve had to acquire as a mother, ushering the girls through the mundanity of this impossible life. Perhaps I have been in training for exactly this moment with my dad as he prepares to leave that life. I am grateful for my ability to do this, but devastated it needs to be done.

The three of us eat lunch at the kitchen table. Then the morning repeats itself—he falls asleep, Merry does the dishes, I wheel him to bed, I lie with him. I assume the same routine will repeat for dinner. I don’t know how Merry is going to stay sane through this. I, at least, have Elijah.

Dad sleeps until four o’clock in the afternoon. I get dressed in a black skirt that I brought for the express purpose of Elijah pushing it up around my waist to fuck me. I’m wearing a black lace bra and matching panties, which I had to retrieve from the farthest corner of my underwear drawer at home. They must be a few years old, an impulse buy, a past attempt to bring back the elusive spark in my marriage. The tags were still on. At the last minute, I decide to take off the panties. I used to hear of women going commando and thought that was absurd. I was convinced no woman did this, that it was a myth created by theporn industry. But, I decide, Katrina is a woman who likes to feel free in every possible way.

I spritz myself with perfume, put earrings in my ears. It’s been so long since I’ve worn earrings that I basically have to repierce my lobes. I dab the blood with a square of toilet paper.

“Well, don’t you look nice,” Merry says when she sees me, her face lit up. We both need a reminder that life keeps going, that there is a world beyond the walls of this house, a world worth dressing up for.

“Thank you,” I say.

“You’re going out with Prisha again?”

I nod. “Yeah. I’ll stay at her place. She has the most amazing apartment downtown. Did I tell you about it? The views!”

I stop myself, knowing I’m doing what every liar does—saying too much, sharing extraneous details, speaking in exclamation marks.

“That sounds nice.”

“I’ll come back by noon or so tomorrow, hang with you guys for a little bit before I drive back home.”

“Okay,” she says. “Thank you. It means a lot to have you here.”

She looks like she might cry. I go to her, hug her. Her body is stiff in response, but she pats my back awkwardly.

“You need anything before I head out?”

She shakes her head.

“If you ever want to come with me, for a drink or something ...”

I’m offering because I know she’ll decline.

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