This is Your Life, Harriet Chance! (18 page)

H
arriet is awakened by the squalling of the public address system, signaling the
Zuiderdam
’s imminent arrival in Glacier Bay. Having been up half the night with Caroline, Harriet feels ten years older as she drags herself out of bed to find her daughter on the love seat, flipping absently through
Mariner
magazine.

“Morning, Mom.”

“Good morning, dear.”

Indeed, it is a good morning. It’s overcast, which bodes well. The pamphlets say that the glaciers look their best beneath gray skies.

Upon Caroline’s suggestion, they order breakfast from room service, and Wayan soon wheels in their omelets, with a sly wink for Harriet.

“No crab today, eh, Ms. Chance?”

“Good day, Wayan,” she says.

The boy smiles. Releasing the cart, he fashions his hands into pincers and snaps them a few times for Harriet’s benefit.

“Little smart-ass,” she says, upon his departure.

“I don’t follow,” says Caroline.

“It’s a long story. And not one I’m proud of.”

They eat side by side on the love seat with the curtains open.

“So, look, I know I’ve said some crummy things about Dad. But would it be okay if I go with you?”

“Of course, dear. He’d want you there.”

Everything feels different after last night. Having cleared the air after all these years, Harriet feels lighter. Her lone regret, aside from the fact that Skip isn’t here so she can wring his neck, is that she didn’t clear the air thirty years ago.

With Caroline by her side and a chill breeze thundering past her ears, Harriet clutches the yogurt container firmly to her chest. Everything feels wrong for the occasion. It isn’t just the indifference of this eternal landscape forged by ice. She failed to consider the crowds, the incessant click of camera shutters, the oohing and aahing, the children darting about, squealing with laughter, horning in on her real estate, and stepping on her toes.

Harriet clutches the ashes still closer as she stares straight ahead into the wind, her eyes fixed on the glacier that is glowing eerily blue against the white backdrop. Beyond its fissured
facade, the glacier runs a smooth ribbon of ice into the mountains, through valleys carved violently and patiently over eons as far as the eye can see. Everything about this place—its stillness and scope and magnitude—seems to suggest permanence. But in fifty years, it will be gone.

“Remember those Mentholatum cough drops?” says a voice, startling Harriet from her reverie. “The ones I used to like?”

Harriet turns. There, beside her, in Caroline’s place, leaning against the rail in his blue windbreaker, stands Bernard. At ninety, he cuts a stooped figure, hatless, and gaunter than ever. His hair has thinned, now, only a few windblown wisps of white remaining. The hair growing out of his ears, meanwhile, has thickened.

Suddenly the deck all around them is deserted. The children, the camera snappers, have all disappeared without a trace. Caroline is nowhere to be seen. Only Harriet and Bernard remain amid the sprawl of mountain and ice.

“Dirtier than I thought it would be,” he observes. “But they really got the color right, didn’t they? Halls, I mean.”

“Vicks,” she says. “Please don’t try to talk me out of this, Bernard.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” he says, looking over his shoulder. “But hurry up. I haven’t got much time.”

“Why are you here, Bernard? I think you owe me an explanation by now. To warn me, is that it? I want to know why you’re happening to me.”

“Trust me, I haven’t got time to explain. I’d rather just savor these moments.”

They trail off into silence, turning their attention overboard, where countless chunks of ice bob on the choppy surface of the bay.

“I forgive you, Bernard.”

Bernard fashions a sad smile, gathering a few wisps of hair between his fingers, before smoothing them back.

“You don’t have to, you know? That’s not why I came. And anyway, I don’t deserve it.”

“Maybe not,” she says. “But forgiveness isn’t something you earn.”

From the glacier comes a deep rumbling and a yawning, and finally a thunderlike peel, as a massive wedge of ice splinters off the face, splashing down into the bay. Seconds later, the great, still silence returns, impervious to the disruption.

“So it goes,” says Bernard, looking over his shoulder. Then without warning, he releases the rail and takes off, trotting lamely down the deck. “Gotta go,” he calls. “I’ll try to come back.”

Harriet watches him struggle with the heavy door to the stairwell, then hobble down two steps before the door closes behind him.

Slowly, she turns back to the rail and fixes her eyes on the massive glacier; for all its ancient grandeur, for all its size and determination, impermanent. And just as sure as the frigid air kisses her face, she feels the cool certainty of death. Though
heaven knows she ought to be accustomed to the idea by now, it suddenly occurs to Harriet that she might die sooner rather than later. The yogurt container slips from her grasp. She fumbles to recover it as it crashes to the deck. The lid bursts open. A cloud of soot and ash explode into the wind.

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.”

H
appy 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.

A
t 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 this 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?”