Jonathan Evison - This is Your Life, Harriet Chance!

“How thoughtful of you.”

“Aren’t you going to look?”

“Just resting my eyes, dear.”

“A few creature comforts, that’s all. I know it’s not much. Just little things I always find myself wishing I had when I’m traveling.”

Dutifully, Harriet opens her eyes, peering down into the pink gift bag for a quick inventory: a book of crossword puzzles, a roll of Tums, some orange foam ear plugs, and a pair of reading glasses.

“I hope those are strong enough,” says Caroline. “The glasses, I mean.”

“Oh yes, dear,” Harriet says, closing her eyes once more. “They’ll be perfect.”

She can hardly get the last three words out, her tongue is so heavy. Within seconds, her thoughts lose all fluidity, hardening like wax in her brain, until her mind is a complete blank and her eyelids refuse to stay open. Soon Harriet is deeply and dreamlessly asleep in the passenger’s seat.

When she awakens, much refreshed, somewhere around Everett, Caroline is sipping a latte, with the radio on low.

“There’s a decaf latte there for you in the holder,” she says. “Geez, Mom, I had no idea you could snore like that.”

“I don’t snore.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“Well, you don’t have to be rude about it,” says Harriet, looking out the side window.

“Rude? I was — you were — ugh, never mind. Enjoy your latte.”

Why does it always come to this between her and Caroline? As though they’re out of patience before they’ve even begun. It doesn’t seem to matter how firmly they resolve themselves to diplomacy or civil obligation, after the briefest of exchanges their relationship devolves into this prickly state of nervous exhaustion. They’re forever plagued by the same old pettiness, still stung by the same insults, still harboring the same old resentments. Harriet knows damn well things might have gone better. She knows she should cut her daughter some slack, a lot of slack. But somehow she can’t. And it pains her to admit that, if anything, Harriet has become less expansive with age. The fruits of self-pity were no less bitter at seventy-eight than they were at sixteen.

“You never give me enough credit,” says Caroline. “You never have.”

“Why, Caroline, darling, that’s not true.”

“It doesn’t matter what I do, what I say, it’s never enough. I’ll always be a fucking addict to you.”

“Oh, Caroline, stop, please. This has nothing to do with you. I’m an old woman, I’ve got a long day ahead of me. Thank you for picking me up. Thank you for the lovely gift bag. Thank you for the latte. I appreciate everything you do, truly, I do, but my goodness, Caroline, am I supposed to fall all over myself every time you carry a bag or buy me a cup of coffee? And must you always use such language?”

Caroline stares straight ahead at the road, stonily silent.

They maintain the silence past Mount Vernon, through tulip fields and the sprawl of light industrial, with the north Cascades rearing up out of the farmlands to the east. Harriet tries to nap again, but sleep won’t have her.

“I’m sorry, dear,” she says, at last. “Forgive me, I was exhausted from the walk.”

“I told you, I’d get the car.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. And I’m sorry you feel I never gave you enough credit. Oh, Caroline, I’ve failed in so many ways, I know that.”

“You favored Skip.”

The observation is so unexpected, so out of context, that Harriet finds it momentarily disorienting. “Why, Caroline, that’s not true. Dear, how can you even say that?”

“Because it was obvious.”

“In what way?”

“It was like we were competing.”

“Competing? Caroline, I would never pit my children in competition. What kind of mother do you think I was?”

“No, you and I.”

Harriet is dumbstruck.

“You treated me like a rival, Mom.”

Stunned by the realization, Harriet stares numbly at the wrinkled hands piled in her lap.

“Was it any wonder I hated Skip growing up? He got everything, all of Dad’s attention. You and I had to split what was left while Skip got to do everything. And I was expected to stand on the sidelines like you, like a cheerleader, rooting for Skip. So Skip could go to camp, so Skip could get a scholarship, so Skip could—”

“You went to camp, dear.”

“You made me,” she says. She sets her coffee in the holder next to Harriet’s untouched latte and grips the wheel fiercely with both hands. “Skip was the one who wanted to go. I hated it.”

“Good grief, Caroline, that was 1976!”

“You were cheap with me — just like you were cheap with yourself.”

“It’s hardly as if we were wealthy.”

“Cheap in other ways. Oh, forget it,” she says, waving it off. “I should have eaten something.”

“Well, goodness,” says Harriet, reaching into her gift bag. “Let’s stop and eat, then. I have until four o’clock to board. It’ll do us both good.”

Peeling back the foil wrapper of her Tums, Harriet pops one in her mouth, replacing the roll in the pink bag as the antacid begins its chalky dissolve, coating the inside of her mouth. She doubts whether she can actually eat, but the change of scenery and the presence of other people can’t hurt. Fishing her compact out of her purse, she refreshes her lipstick.

At a Denny’s just off the interstate south of Bellingham, they sit in a booth across the aisle from the window. Caroline orders a club sandwich and bowl of minestrone. Harriet orders the avocado chicken Caesar, without avocados. They maintain silence as they wait for their food, Caroline checking her cell phone distractedly. She looks haggard and worry-worn, her eyes rimmed blue-black. Harriet can see that her nails are bitten to the quick.

“You look tired, dear.”

“Gee, thanks, Mom.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. I’m just concerned. How are you? How is Cassidy? Have you heard from her?”

“What do you think?”

“Have you seen the baby yet?”

“No.”

“Are you talking?”

And that’s when Caroline does a most unexpected thing: she casts her eyes down, clutches her face in her hands, and begins sobbing.

Harriet reaches both hands across the table.

“Goodness, dear, I’m so sorry. Is everything okay? Did something happen with Cassidy’s baby?”

Caroline wipes her eyes, blurring her mascara, then extends a hand, which Harriet sandwiches between her own.

“Dear, what is it? What’s wrong?”

Caroline withdraws her hand gently and straightens up.

“Oh, Mom, it’s nothing, okay? I just made a mess of my life.”

Studying her from across the table, Harriet can still see beyond the worried lines of her daughter’s drawn face, beyond the graying hair and the drooping flesh of middle age, past the two failed marriages, the drugs and alcohol, the numerous career changes, the countless disappointments and indignities, to the roly-poly toddler, the gap-toothed little girl, and the sullen teenager with whom she’d fought so bitterly. Though Caroline has achieved varying degrees of success, known fleeting triumphs and sporadic fulfillment, she has not lived a happy life. And somehow, Harriet suddenly sees herself responsible for all of it, every dashed hope, every shade of disillusionment.

“That settles it,” she says. “We’re turning around. We’re going directly to your house, and I’m staying the week. Longer, if necessary.”

“No, Mom, slow down, really. I’m fine.”

“Please, Caroline, dear, let me do something. Let me come stay for a week. I’m more useful than I look. I can cook and clean and run errands. I can—”

“Mom, really, no. I was just having a moment, okay?”