Instinctively, Harriet stoops to gather the remains. But before she can corral the container and the lid, the swarm of ash has dissipated, mingling with the arctic airstream. When she looks up, Harriet finds herself looking at the alarmed countenance of her daughter.
“Mom, Jesus, what’s the matter? Are you all right? You’re not making any sense.”
November 4, 2014
(HARRIET AT SEVENTY-EIGHT)
Happy birthday, Harriet Chance! Consider yourself fortunate to have enjoyed so many. For seventy-eight, you are exceptionally active. Well, maybe not exceptionally, but compared to some, you’re a real fireplug. What’s on your docket this afternoon, birthday girl? How about breakfast with the St. Luke’s fund-raising committee? Did somebody say bake sale? Then it’s off to Safeway for some OxiClean and a sponge, where Chad will inform you (for the third time) that his own birthday is June 23 and that he has a cat named Stuart. Also, he will forget to wheel the cart back. Again.
At noon, it’s lunch with your pal Mildred at the Crab Pot, where your nearest and dearest friend presents you with an extravagant gift: a Bulova dress diamond-accent wristwatch from Macy’s; it must have cost four hundred dollars. You will cherish that watch. For a while. Until you throw it overboard ten months later.
It’s too much, you say, really, just too much. But actually, you’re thrilled. While the old Timex Bernard gifted you on your silver anniversary is still ticking, it’s not much to look at, never was.
Oh, Mildred, it’s lovely, you shouldn’t have, really.
But what you’d like even more than a wristwatch is for Mildred to accompany you on your afternoon visit to Sherwood Arms. God, but it’s so depressing. You’re not sure you can do it alone.
But alas, Mildred has a hair appointment. Last time it was the dentist.
When you arrive at Sherwood Arms, and the orderly with the scorpion tattoo escorts you to Bernard’s room, you are immediately given reason to hope. While your husband still does not recognize you, he thinks he does. Apparently, he believes you to be the party responsible for stealing his remote control—someone named Simone. The orderly informs you in a gruff whisper that the remote control was not stolen but in fact was confiscated by the night orderly after Bernard was caught gnawing on the device, claiming it was a hoagie.
That he remembers Simone’s name is a good sign, right? At least the cheesecloth of his memory is still holding something. They’ve been working with him. Developing some tools. Helping him manage his limited resources. Yesterday he played an entire game of tic-tac-toe with Dr. Stevens.
He lost, but still, he was in until the end.
Where’s my damn remote? he wants to know. What’s he doing here? Who is he? Where’s Mildred?
Look, Bernard, I’ve brought you some lemon bars.
Where’s my remote?
Yes, all in all, a hopeful visit.
You have this much to be happy about, Harriet: things are moving slower in the wrong direction. And you’re okay with that. You feel yourself getting stronger by the day. You can now devote some of your resources to self-care. You’ve even gone to three support groups in the past two weeks. You’re developing a few tools of your own. And of course, your scones were a hit each time.
That’s what’s so devastating about the call at four in the morning. The female voice on the line is measured, businesslike, as it explains that while wandering the halls, unauthorized and unattended, past midnight, your husband apparently slipped on the travertine floor and hit his head. He was unconscious when Simone found him. More than unconscious, actually.
The fact is, Harriet Chance, your husband is in a coma.
August 23, 2015
(HARRIET AT SEVENTY-EIGHT)
At lunch, Harriet is . . . what is the word she’s looking for, spacey? Yes, that’s it, spacey. My, but it’s busy here on the . . . What is this green stuff on my . . . ? What did I do with my, oh, here it is . . .
Her hands, still clutching the empty yogurt container, do not belong to her. Her feet are cinder blocks. Though she’s trying to be attentive, her daughter’s words are elusive.
“Mom, seriously, I think you might’ve had a stroke up there, or something. You were saying stuff that didn’t make any sense. You tried to grab somebody’s camera.”
“Did I?”
“You were trying to hold some lady’s hand.”
“Oh, dear. Darling, what is this green matter on my plate?”
“Chard, I think. Maybe mustard greens. I don’t know the difference. Look, Mom, I really think we should see a doctor after lunch, get you checked out. Just to play it safe.”
Her hands clutch the yogurt container harder. “Yes, dear. That would be fine,” she says, surprised by her own calmness.
“Y’all mind if I join you?” says a morbidly obese fellow, who has materialized suddenly at the end of the table. He’s clutching a Caesar salad and wearing a black T-shirt that says I SEE DUMB PEOPLE.
“I owe y’all an apology for last night,” he says.
“Last night?” says Harriet.
“I’m the one who owes you an apology,” Caroline says. “How were you supposed to know you were dealing with a couple of basket cases?”
“Well now, I wouldn’t go that far.”
“That’s because you’re polite,” says Caroline.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me,” says Harriet.
Caroline and the man exchange awkward looks before the man extends a hand. “Kurt Pickens, Owingsville, Kentucky, pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
“Harriet Chance,” she says.
“So what’d y’all think of them glaciers?”
“Glaciers, dear? Oh yes, glaciers.”
“Mom’s a little confused this morning,” Caroline explains.
“Couldn’t barely move with all them people up on deck,” Kurt observes. “Thing of it is, I don’t know about y’all, but I felt all alone up there. No matter that the lady behind me kept proddin’ me with her camera bag or that some kid nearly upchucked on my shoe. I felt like the last person on earth. Like I was standin’ at the pearly gates and everyone else was inside already. Left behind, that’s how it felt. Somethin’ about all that ice, I reckon. All that big white silence. Put me in the mind to gamble, if you know what I mean?”
“Dear,” says Harriet. “Would you happen to know what this green matter on my plate is? It looks like some kind of chard.”
That’s the last thing Harriet says before she feels the world tilt sideways, as though the ship has been tossed by a giant swell. The next thing she knows, her head is in Mr. Pickens’s lap.
Harriet is back to her old self by the time Caroline and Kurt have wheeled her down to the ship’s infirmary, where a very tan, bushy-browed, vaguely familiar gentleman named Frankel, wearing a stethoscope, tends to Harriet, though not before he’s forced to pry the yogurt container from her grasp.
“Are you diabetic?”
“No,” says Harriet.
“Any irregularities in blood sugar?”
“No.”
“Low blood pressure?”
“No.”
“Hypertension?”
“A little.”
“Are you taking any medication?”
“Well, yes, I am taking a number of things.”
At length, Harriet lists her prescriptions. Fosamax, Celebrex, and down the line. The doctor begins cocking a brow halfway through the inventory.
“Impressive,” he says. “Slowly now, I’m going to ask you to sit up.” He cradles her head in his hands as Harriet eases herself upright, Caroline and Wayan lending a hand.
When she’s sitting up on the bed, Frankel holds up a finger, instructing Harriet to follow its progress, side to side.
“She’s tracking,” he announces. “Any nausea?”
“No.”
“Palpitations, sweating?”
“No.”
“My feet feel heavier than usual, though.”
“How long has thi
s been going on? The disorientation?” This query seems to be directed more at Caroline than Harriet.
“Mom?”
“It hasn’t,” says Harriet.
“So this was just an isolated incident? No history of short term-memory loss?”
“Nothing like this,” says Harriet. “It was the strangest thing. One minute, I was—”
“Actually,” interjects Caroline. “She’s had a couple of episodes recently. Right, Mom?”
Harriet looks down at her lap. “I have been a little out of sorts,” she admits.
“She’s been having dreams.”
“Dreams?”
“About my fa—. About her husband,” says Caroline. “He died last year.”
“I see. I’m sorry,” says Dr. Frankel. “First, I’m going to recommend rest. This could simply be a little hypoperfusion we’re dealing with, exacerbated by exhaustion, shock, any number of things.” Or,” he says, “there could be another pathology at work. You don’t remember anything from this morning?”
“Nothing before the buffet.”
“And last night?”
“Not much.”
“Okay, here’s what I recommend,” Frankel says, more to Caroline than Harriet. “That you take it easy in Ketchikan. In fact, I’m going to have to insist. Not trying to scare you here, but I don’t want to rule out the possibility of something more serious. When you return to the states, you undergo some testing. I’d schedule a CT right away. Rule out a few possibilities. Find out what—if anything—is going on here. No reason to speculate and no reason to panic. I’m not ready to call this anything. This is nothing too out of the ordinary for someone her age. But . . .”
Harriet doesn’t like the way he said but. Or the way he left it hanging there. Like he knew something. She tries to chase away a sudden uneasiness.
“Will it happen again?” says Caroline.
“There’s really no way of knowing. It could, yes. Which is why I insist you take it easy. And I think it’s best that somebody stay with her at all times. We wouldn’t want her taking a fall. If there’s any pressure building in there, we wouldn’t want . . . look, just take it easy. Schedule the tests.”
As Caroline and Kurt wheel her back to the cabin, Harriet finds herself embarrassed by all the fuss. For once, she wishes she were invisible.
“This wheelchair is totally unnecessary,” she complains, still clutching the empty yogurt tub.
“Mom, you heard him, you’re supposed to take it easy.”
“Y’all are welcome to push me instead,” says Kurt breathlessly.
“Really, Mom. Don’t be stubborn. I know this is tough for you. But you just gotta go with the program.”
More than frightened, more than humbled, even, Harriet is grateful for Caroline’s presence. She seems so much more together, so much more capable than she was forty-eight hours ago.
At the cabin door, Harriet and Caroline thank Kurt and bid him farewell.
“He’s nice,” says Caroline after she shuts the door.
In spite of Harriet’s protestations, Caroline clutches her under the arms, assisting her out of the wheelchair and onto the bed, then promptly turns on the television without asking.
“Do you want any water or anything, Mom?”
“No, dear, thank you.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Not in the least.”
“Look, just stay put for a few minutes, okay? I’ve gotta go down the hall for a sec.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve gotta let Skip know what’s going on.”
“Frankly, I don’t see as how he’s entitled to an update, Caroline. For heaven’s sake, he tried to swindle his own mother. All he ever had to do is ask. He didn’t even have the courage to do it himself. Let him sweat it out, Caroline. Let him think about his actions.”
“Mom, I told him I’d let him know. He really does worry about you, that much is true.”
On her way out the door, Caroline indicates the empty yogurt container with a nod.
“And Mom,” she says. “Maybe it’s time to let go, huh?”
November 8, 2014
(HARRIET AT SEVENTY-EIGHT)
As far as decisions go, you’ve certainly made worse in your day, possibly even more far-reaching, considering your husband is ninety years old, and let’s face it, nobody’s been busy planning a birthday party. But you’ve never made a decision quite this difficult. Yes, on one level it’s a no-brainer (sorry, bad metaphor), but on another level it’s unthinkable (oops, did it again).
If that first drive to Sherwood Arms was long, the drive to St. Joseph Med in Tacoma is interminable. Once again, you slump in the backseat of Skip’s SUV, which smells even more florid than usual. This you know, because Skip keeps politely cracking his window.
None of this seems real. It feels as if somebody, without warning, has pulled the plug on the rest of your life.
Okay, bad metaphor again.
The point is, more than anything else, the suddenness of your grief has you reeling. You have no idea what your life looks like after today. Hard as you try, you can’t even see tomorrow.
You hate seeing him this way, arranged corpselike, lips and extremities bloodless, respirators jammed up his nose, heart monitors beating, IVs dripping. This is even less your Bernard than was the man who recently spit in your face and accused you of trying to poison him, the man who tried to eat a remote control. But none of this makes it any easier, does it, Harriet? Because some part of you wants to believe there’s still hope. You’ve got to believe. You weren’t sleeping all those years in church.
Maybe the fall jarred something, you tell yourself. Maybe he’ll snap out of this coma and miraculously remember everything, and the two of you can go back to your contentious Scrabble matches, your early dinners, and the stultifying routine that marked your days before Bernard began losing his mind.
Even if he didn’t remember you, that wouldn’t be so bad.
Even if he returned to Sherwood Arms, and you made your daily visits and baked him lemon ginger scones, that would be okay. Even if he just lay here like this, insensate, maybe twitching an eyebrow now and again, wiggling a toe, as you read the history of the Civil War to him or combed his hair and trimmed his fingernails, that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
No, this is the worst thing in the world: reality. Trumper of hope, killer of faith. The reality that there’s no going back, that once those monitors stop beeping, the only man you’ve ever loved will never again hold your hand or touch your shoulder or berate you for a dripping faucet.
When Skip and Caroline leave the room, you stand there stupidly, all alone in the chill hospital air, not knowing what to do or say as the life support ceases functioning.
“I’m sorry it ended badly,” you say.
He’s already dead, you tell yourself. There is little significance to this moment. But something happens, doesn’t it, Harriet? As you watch his chest rise and fall for the last time, watch his ribs contract with the tiniest of paroxysms, you actually feel him take leave, not of his own body but of yours, like a shiver running from the base of your neck out the top of your head.
Only then do you realize that all these years he lived inside of you.
August 24, 2015
(HARRIET AT SEVENTY-EIGHT)
Caroline’s been gone less than two minutes when Harriet feels a familiar presence beside her in bed: Bernard.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says from behind the cover of his newspaper. “Maybe cut Skipper a little slack,” he says. “He’s desperate, you know.”
“That’s what Caroline says.”
“She’d know.”
“But selling my house from under me, locking me away in a nursing home? And not even having the courage to do it himself. What really gets me is he could have just asked for help.”
Bernard lowers his newspaper, his eyes scanning the room nervously. “We all could have. The point is, Skip’s on the r
opes. Hell, half of America is. He’s not in his right mind, at least he wasn’t when he hatched this ridiculous plot. It’s amazing the things we can talk ourselves into when we’re desperate for a result. And really, maybe it’s not such a bad plan, after all. You’re gonna break your neck on those basement stairs one of these days if you’re not careful. You can’t possibly handle that big yard by yourself.”
“I chose that house. And I choose it still.”
“Whatever you say. I’m running out of time here. We both are, Harriet. You forgave Caroline. Now forgive Skip. Go easy on him.”
“I went pretty easy on you, didn’t I?”
“You did, yes. And forgive yourself while you’re at it. That’s the biggest one of all.”
They retreat into silence. After a moment, Bernard peels the covers back, rolls up his newspaper like a baton, taps it decisively once upon his lap, and climbs out of bed.
“Well, I think this is it, Harriet.”
“You’re leaving?”
“I have to. No time to explain, but I haven’t got a choice.”
“What will happen to me?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
Standing now, he looks down on her sympathetically. “Amounts to the same thing. I’m sorry I made a mess of us. Of everything, really. I could have been more, a lot more.”
“What will happen to you?”
“Nothing.”
God, but Harriet wants to reach out and touch him one last time, to grab hold of him and never let go. But she’s stuck in place, unable to budge, held there in bed by some invisible force akin to gravity.
“What are you?” she says. “You owe me that much. A ghost, an angel, a dream?”
This is Your Life, Harriet Chance! Page 18