This is Your Life, Harriet Chance! (14 page)

L
ook around you, Harriet, at the sights and sounds of a Chance family Christmas. See the handsome Norway spruce festooned with tinsel and lights. Hear old Bing belting it out on the hi-fi. Feel that crackling fire, smell that tangy ham. And look at those four felt stockings dangling above the hearth, the ones you yearned for so long ago. You’ve much to be grateful for, Harriet.

So why are you so disenchanted? Is it because you think you’ve wasted your life? Because you think the other you would be ashamed of you?

No offense, but why do you even bother sneaking to the kitchen to spike your eggnog, when everybody, even your five-year-old—especially your five-year-old, as it turns out—
knows what you’re up to? For this is the only mother Caroline has ever known: at turns, gloomy and erratic, often heavy of tongue, frequently rheumy of eye.

Be honest, Harriet: you don’t even know why you’re crying in the kitchen. You have zero emotional clarity at this moment. Your emotional self has no borders, no shape, no horizons. You can’t tell rage from sadness, anymore. You’re lost at sea emotionally.

That’s it, have another eggnog.

The fact is, Harriet, you’re a certified drunk. Everybody sees it but you. Pretty soon, you’ll catch on, and once you do, you’ll do a serviceable job of hiding this fact, but mostly you will overcompensate for it.

Bernard, by degrees, has gone into hiding the past two years. Really, you can’t blame him for withdrawing. You’ve made yourself opaque to him. In less than three months, he will have a chance encounter in Philadelphia that will change his life for the better. Yes, Harriet, had you been a little more proactive, and a little less in your cups, things might have turned out differently in Philadelphia: a certain hairy-legged two-timer might not have stolen your husband’s heart. But then, maybe you wouldn’t care about that, either. Maybe at this point, jealousy is outside your atrophied emotional range.

At what point did you lose control of your life, Harriet? When did you start hating yourself? When did you decide to start slowly killing yourself, and why? Maybe the answer is at the bottom of that highball glass.

Or not.

Oh, go ahead and make another, Harriet. But stick with me here. This part has a happy ending. Sort of.

As you’re slumped at the kitchen table, trying to reconcile your anger with your despair, five-year-old Caroline comes to comfort you. Actually, she’s just ferreting out another Christmas cookie when she walks in and finds you there, weeping inconsolably for no discernible reason.

“Come here, honey,” you say.

Reluctantly, she inches toward you, expressionless. You reach out for her hand and pull her close to you. Warily, she submits. You clutch the child to your chest until she has no choice but to surrender to your embrace.

“Mommy’s sorry,” you say.

The girl says nothing.

For five minutes, you hold her captive.

“It’s not your fault,” you tell her.

Again, she says nothing.

You clutch her even tighter. You rock her like a baby, sobbing into her shoulder, as she stands there stiffly, silently, no doubt confused.

Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas, Harriet! All is calm, all is bright.

I
n the Lido buffet at breakfast, Harriet wipes her mouth and pushes her Greek omelet aside as she scans her daily planner.

“What about aqua aerobics with lifestylist Rocco at ten?”

“Sorry, Mom. I’ve got stuff to take care of.”

“You’ve got all afternoon. C’mon, let’s get some exercise. We’ve done nothing but eat for two days.”

“It’s a cruise, Mom. That’s what you do. You’re supposed to gain five pounds. You go and enjoy your activities, I wanna get this stuff out of the way.”

“Well, what is it? Maybe I can help.”

“That’s okay, relax. Enjoy your cruise.”

“What if I don’t feel like relaxing? Let me help.”

“No, Mom, I’ve got it.”

“What is it? Is it work?”

“Some of it, yeah. Look, Mom, it’s just some stuff, we’ll talk about it all later, okay?”

“Mm, I see,” says Harriet. “I understand, of course, I get it. I’ll give you your space, I’m sorry.” She folds her planner and stuffs it in her purse. “You always needed your space. You and your father.”

“Mom, it’s not like that. We’ll hang out later.”

“I’m getting on your nerves.”

“No, actually. You’re not. I’m having a great time. A lot better than I expected. Really.”

It’s a left-handed compliment, but Harriet will take it.

“Well, so am I,” she says.
“Actually.”

They exchange sly smiles.

“Good,” says Caroline. “We’ll do something fun later. And Mom, do me a favor: take it easy. I mean with the exercise stuff, be careful. Don’t overdo it.”

“You act like I’m going to fall and kill myself.”

“Well, shit, Mom, can you blame me? Look, have fun. Just be careful, that’s all I’m saying. Promise?”

“Promise.”

After breakfast, they go their separate ways.

Arriving at the pool punctually, Harriet is unaware that she’s been entertaining any expectations regarding lifestylist Rocco until she sees him standing poolside, clutching a yellow float noodle: four foot six, and Asian. Not that the young
man is unattractive. Somehow she’d just expected someone brawnier: a blue-eyed Neapolitan, with thick, dark brows and chiseled biceps. But what he lacks in stature, Rocco compensates for with spunk. And it’s contagious. Who knew water walking could be so much fun? They (eleven women and a Swedish fellow in what amounts to a thong) kick, and punch and make water waves, working their abs and hamstrings and buttocks, their quads and glutes and joints, while Rocco remains tirelessly upbeat all the while, despite the fact that the poor dear practically has to tread water in the shallow end.

When it’s over, Harriet feels jelly-legged but energized. Easing her way out of the shallows, she’s already famished again.

Scarcely has she seated herself in the buffet than the hulking figure of Kurt Pickens appears at the head of her table.

“Y’all mind if I join you?”

“There’s just me, dear.”

Though Harriet notes with satisfaction that today Kurt’s T-shirt has sleeves, it poses a rather offensive question in bold print. Namely,
WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU LOOKING AT
?

“Just lost my nut up in the casino,” he says. “Couldn’t buy a hand.”

Without further ceremony, he lowers himself into his seat and sets methodically to work on his mashed potatoes.

“I’m sorry to hear it, dear.”

“Ah, well,” he says. “Sun don’t shine on the same dog’s ass every day. This whole damn thing was Donna Mae’s idea,” he observes, stabbing a forkful of sausage. “Hell, I wanted a
flat-screen TV. But Donna Mae, she was bent on seeing Alaska. I said, ‘Well how about someplace decent, like the Caribbean?’ You know, Hawaii or whatever? But that was Donna Mae. Willful as a damn bloodhound.” He forks a meatball and pops it in his mouth. “Unfortunately, not as loyal.”

“I’m so sorry, dear.”

“Reckon she thought she deserved better,” he says, chewing. “Somebody fitter, more adventurous. Somebody named Garth in a white convertible.” He stabs another meatball.

“Oh, Kurt, that’s awful.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, waving it off with his forkless hand. “Once she lost the weight, it was the only logical conclusion for us.”

“I doubt that’s the case.”

“It’s the case, believe me. She made the right move. This Garth in the white convertible has a lot on the ball. Some kind of investment banker in Lexington. Plays tennis. Drinks martinis.”

“That’s all superficial,” says Harriet.

“Look at me,” he says. “What do you see?”

“Honestly?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“I see a young man in a rather off-putting T-shirt who talks with his mouth full.”

“What else?”

“A young man who could stand to lose a few pounds around the middle if he doesn’t want to invite heart disease.
But a handsome one nonetheless. And quite knowledgeable—particularly in the arena of motor sports. Overall, I see a young man with a lot of potential, with his best years still in front of him.”

“Well, that’s not what Donna Mae saw.”

“The hell with Donna Mae,” says Harriet. “Become an advocate for yourself.”

“Okay,” says Kurt. “I’m a three-hundred-and-forty-pound recently divorced guy on a cruise by himself. I drink too much, I’m generally antisocial (though I’m afraid to be alone), I have a gambling problem, and it turns out I’m scared of mountains.”

“Well, that’s not so bad.”

“Okay. I lost my house in the divorce, Donna Mae fought me for custody of my cats, then had them put to sleep, I hate my job in wholesale plumbing supply, I wanna kill my boss, and the truth is, I don’t care if I wake up tomorrow morning, although the breakfast buffet is decent.” He carves out a bite of mashed potatoes. “Oh, and I’m impotent. So where do I go from here?”

“Glacier Bay,” says Harriet. “That’s where you go from here. Then Ketchikan. But with a new attitude, a new way of looking at things.”

Kurt spears half a sausage and pilots it to his mouth. “Go on,” he says.

“Maybe you go to the gym instead of the casino next time. They’ve got wonderful facilities here on the boat. You’ll feel
better about yourself if you do something about your situation. You might start by putting that fork down.”

Still chewing, Kurt lowers his fork slowly. There’s nothing left on his plate but a smear of mashed potatoes and gravy.

“Oh, dear, I’ve offended you, haven’t I?”

Picking up his empty plate, he stands. “I’m going back for some of that pork loin. You need anything?”

W
ell, Harriet, it’s come to this. You’ve lost control of your life. Or Bernard’s life, anyway. Probably a blessing, don’t you think? Really, it ought to come as a relief, when you get right down to it. At least they’re not trying to take your house. At least they’re not coming for you.

Bernard sits stiffly on the sofa, fully clothed, awaiting the toast that is not forthcoming, while
Good Morning America
unfolds quietly on the television, though neither of you is watching it. You never do. You just like the company.

No matter how you entice Bernard to move from one activity to the next, one place to another, he’s uncooperative. Like Bartleby, he’d prefer not to, though Bartleby was never this cantankerous. Still, you have no choice but to try to move
him. On at least five occasions already this morning, you’ve informed Bernard that you’re taking him to the Old Mill for breakfast. Your favorite, remember? A white lie he will never remember.

“Where’s my toast?” he wants to know.

Yes, he loves toast, though he chokes on it frequently.

It’s early morning and the fog off the strait has not yet lifted when Caroline and Skip arrive in Skip’s SUV. Caroline opens the back door for you and Bernard.

“Who’s she?” Bernard wants to know.

“That’s Caroline.”

“Caroline who?”

Here you are, Harriet, in the backseat, clasping Bernard’s hand in yours, on the drive to Sherwood Arms. Three and a half miles, and it feels like you’re driving to Spokane. You’ve dressed Bernard nicely, though dignity is lost on him. He’ll foul the white dress shirt the minute anyone tries to feed him. He’ll probably foul the diaper, too. But it’s no longer on you, Harriet. Admit it, as terrible as it sounds, it’s a relief.

God, but it happened so fast. How is it even possible?

“Where the hell are we going?” he wants to know.

Look at Caroline fondling her monkey’s fist in the passenger’s seat.

Look at Skip, fifty-five years old, gripping the wheel at ten and two, just like his father taught him.

At reception, you try to distract Bernard. But he doesn’t give a damn about any goddamn aquarium, does he? He wants his toast. Where the hell are we? he wants to know.

You shepherd him past reception. The walk down the corridor is a long and toastless journey. Finally, you arrive at number five. There’s a clipboard affixed to the door. A placard with two macramed carrots that says
HOME SWEET HOME
.

It’s so nice, you all say. Look at the view. They’ve thought of everything, haven’t they? And the staff is just lovely. Oh, look at the television, Bernard, just look at the size of it!

But you’re really just talking to yourselves, aren’t you? Because for all Bernard knows, he’s in Donald Duck’s living room with three complete strangers. All he knows is he wants toast. Bad enough to yell about it.

But you can see it, Harriet, a look in his eyes, an alertness, as if somewhere behind the disease, behind the scar tissue, behind the fog of disassociation, Bernard is all there, he’s just lost his ability to communicate. Like somebody turned off his volume. You’re certain he can see everything that is transpiring with crystal clarity, and he can’t do a goddamn thing about it.

Somebody, please, get the man some toast.

W
hen Harriet returns from the buffet, she finds the
DO NOT DISTURB
sign dangling from the door handle of her cabin. Inside, the shower is running, and steam seeps in from beneath the bathroom door, fogging the windows. The cabin is a disaster area. In less than forty-eight hours, Caroline has taken over the room. Not the organized type by nature, her parents’ zealous attention to tidiness only seemed to encourage Caroline’s slovenly ways, as though her messiness was an act of defiance—one of many—that would last a lifetime. Her possessions, though few, are scattered widely, from the heaping coffee table to the unmade bed, where her dirty underwear is on display.

Instinctively, Harriet begins straightening the cabin, determined
not to begrudge her daughter. She gathers the new sweater and blouse, hanging them in the tiny closet. Fishing the underwear off the pillow, she drops them in Caroline’s canvas bag. She smoothes the sheets and makes the bed before turning her attention to the chaotic coffee table, where from beneath Caroline’s jeans and pullover, Harriet unearths a thin manila folder.

She hasn’t the foggiest idea what the folder might possibly contain or what Caroline’s job at Office Depot might look like on paper. The fact is, it’s hard to imagine an Office Depot employee bringing their job home at all, let alone on vacation. What if it’s not work-related at all? What if it’s more legal difficulty or, worse, some medical concern Caroline is not telling her about? Hepatitis. Cancer. God knows, she abused her body over the years.

One eye on the bathroom door, Harriet peeks inside the folder.

Her immediate response is relief. No arrest warrants, no grim medical diagnosis, but real estate listings, several pages of them. Black-and-white photos, accompanied by a blur of vital statistics which Harriet can’t make out without her reading glasses. Is Caroline buying a house? How can she afford it? Are the listings rentals? Not until she spots the familiar Jace Real Estate logo does Harriet’s heart begin to race. Is Caroline moving to the peninsula? Impossible. Skip? Before Harriet can fetch her glasses, the shower sputters to a halt and the clashing metallic rings tinkle as Caroline pulls the
curtain back. Harriet slaps the folder shut and replaces the jeans and sweater atop it, quickly busying herself with the dresser, as Caroline emerges, wrapped in a towel.

Watching Caroline dress, the thrilling realization skitters down Harriet’s spine: her children are moving closer at last! For years, she’s been trying to lure Skip to the peninsula. Mornings when the relentless rain is beating down on Seattle’s north end, and the gloom crowds in from all corners, Harriet phones Skip to report the glorious blue skies awaiting him in the banana belt, a mere seventy miles to the west. You’ve said yourself, you can work from anywhere, she reminds him. No crime, no traffic. Did she mention she’s out in her garden, right now, sipping an Arnold Palmer? She’s even tried to entice Caroline to relocate, though with less frequency. Dear, there’s nothing for you in the city, she tells her. They’ve got a Home Depot right here in Sequim.

Now it’s actually happening!

No matter that they’re doing it because they think their mother is helpless. No matter that they’re likely to drive her crazy with their hounding and snooping or that they’re liable to take away her car keys. They can have them as long as they’re willing to chauffeur her around town according to her needs. The fact is, she’d welcome the opportunity not to drive. She’s willing to give up some of her independence if it means her children will be closer. She can continue her healing with Caroline. Skip can clean those gutters this fall. The three of them can dine together on occasion. There’s much to hope
for. Of course, there will be disadvantages, small annoyances, occasional unpleasantness, but it’s worth the trade-off just to have someone to bake for, someone to see a matinee with.

“So how was your thing at the pool, anyway?” says Caroline.

“Lovely,” says Harriet. “Not too vigorous, you’ll be glad to know. And how did your business go?”

“So far, so good,” she says nonchalantly, slipping into her pullover.

“Well, that’s exciting.”

Caroline looks at her strangely. “Is it?”

“Why, of course it is. When were you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what exactly, Mom?”

“About the house.”

“I was going to talk to you about it at dinner tonight,” she says, sliding into her jeans.

“Who’s actually going to live in the house, dear?”

“Whoever buys it, I guess. There’s really no way of knowing, Mom.”

“Well, I assume Skip’s buying it. You can’t afford it on your salary, can you?”

Caroline looks momentarily stricken as she lowers herself next to Harriet in the love seat. “Oh, Mom,” she says pityingly. “No, you don’t understand. Those are comps.”

“Comps?”

“Comparably priced houses.”

“Comparable to what? Are you getting your real estate license, dear? That’s wonderful.”

“No, Mom. These places are all priced comparably to yours. They’re all three bedroom, two baths, on two to five acres that have sold in the past six months. They’re all with fifteen miles of your house.”

“I’m afraid I still don’t understand.”

“Dwight says the market is rebounding and that it may not last. In fact, he thinks the bottom may drop out again any day.”

A cold hand seizes Harriet’s heart. “Dwight?”

“Mom, just listen to reason, here.”

Harriet’s got a mind to stand up and walk out of the room. But she fears her knees will give out if she stands.

“You’re sitting on nearly a half million dollars if you sell now. It’s time to list it, Mom.”

Stonily silent, Harriet turns her face to the veranda as this new, more sinister revelation settles in.

When Caroline sets a consoling hand on Harriet’s knee, she brushes it off like a tarantula.