Jonathan Evison - This is Your Life, Harriet Chance!

Harriet looks at her doubtfully.

“Skip made some calls.”

“To whom?”

“The cruise line, I guess. And Dr. Ritchie. He faxed a note.” “What could Dr. Ritchie possibly have to do with any of this?”

“Never mind that. Mom, this is nuts. Dad was fucking Mildred for like half his life. Jesus, no wonder he was never home.”

“Stop talking like that, please.”

“Well, shit, Mom. This is seriously screwed up.”

“Do you think I need you to tell me that? I know screwed up when I see it, Caroline. My goodness, I’m looking right at it.” Harriet regrets the statement, immediately.

Caroline stands, turns toward the veranda. “I see. Fine.”

“I’m sorry,” says Harriet, setting her bag down. “I didn’t mean that. Sit down, sweetheart. It’s been a shock, that’s all.”

“Fuck, I guess so,” she says, resuming her seat. “You’re telling me you had no clue?”

“Caroline, please, stop using that language.”

“Oh get over it, Mom. You’re not that old-fashioned. You really had no idea? All those years?”

“I didn’t. My God, Caroline. Don’t you think if I. . of course I didn’t.”

“How is that even possible?”

“Do you think I don’t feel like an idiot? Just imagine.”

“Well, I’m not a bit surprised, actually.”

“Good for you. As it happens, I was, Caroline. And quit being so hard on him. We’re all ‘fucked up,’ as you like to put it.”

“Why are you defending him?”

“I’m not.”

“Unbelievable. After all you did for him.”

“He did his share for me, you know. And for you, too.”

“See, you’re doing it again. It’s like a habit with you, Mom.”

“You’re right, it is. And a tough one to break. Oh, but please darling, I’m so tired. I apologize, it was a terrible thing to say. You’re not screwed up. I’m the screwed-up one.”

Harriet takes her coat off and throws it on the bed. “So, I take it you’re coming along?”

“Yeah. That’s okay, right?”

Harriet looks at Caroline’s measly purse. “What will you wear?”

Once again, Caroline averts her eyes. “I’ll figure it out in Skagamalack or wherever. I’ll buy a sweatshirt with a moose on it. And a bathing suit. This will be fun, Mom, you watch.”

“Do you have money?”

“Skip’s wiring some.”

“You could always ask me, you know.”

“No, thanks.”

“Caroline, things are different now. You’re in a different place. If you need money, I can always—”

“Mom, I appreciate it. But you’ve done enough. Really, I don’t want your money.”

“Why won’t you ever let me help you, dear?”

“Won’t I?” Caroline stands and walks to the sliding door. She’s about to step out onto the veranda when she turns back to Harriet.

“Honestly, I don’t get it, Mom. You find out your husband was cheating on you for like. . fuck, half your life, and you don’t seem that upset about it. Christ, not only do you forgive him, you defend him. You never went that easy on me, that’s for sure.”

“I know, I know. I made you go to summer camp. We’ve been over that. I apologize, Caroline. My God, if I could have possibly known that I’d be hearing about it forty years later, I would never have made you go.”

“Oh, please. Like this has anything to do with summer camp.”

Suddenly the room is beginning to sway, and it’s not the Zuiderdam. Harriet tries to ease herself backward onto the bed, and misjudges the distance, just enough that she nearly loses her balance.

“Jesus, Mom, are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Just worn out. Dear, could you hand me the water bottle on the coffee table, please.”

Caroline uncaps the water and hands it to her, looking genuinely concerned. “Are you sure you’re okay? How’s your back?”

“Fine,” says Harriet.

“You look pale. Should I call someone?”

“Heavens, no. Thank you,” says Harriet, kicking off her shoes. “I think I’ll just rest my eyes. Make yourself at home, dear.”

And no sooner has Harriet swung her legs onto the bed, rolled over onto her side, and closed her eyes than sleep begins to seep heavily into her bones.

“Just holler if you need me,” she hears Caroline say.

“Yes, dear.” She can barely get the words out.

She hears Caroline walk to the bathroom, shut the door, and turn on the shower. Within seconds, Harriet is sleeping like iron.

Look at you, Harriet, the week before senior prom, all decked out in champagne taffeta for your dress fitting. Look at you, chin up, back straight, as your mother sits nearby impatiently, offering unsentimental commentary.

Terrence Osier is to be your date, he of the debate club, captain of the basketball team, and your parents roundly approve. He comes from a good family, father’s a circuit court judge, mother’s a Nordstrom. They’re members at both the University Club and the Tennis Club. The truth is, in spite of his pedigree, Terrence Osier doesn’t do much for you, with his dirty blond cowlicks and his smug self-assuredness, but then, most boys don’t do much for you.

Your father is sparing no expense on the dress. He’s treating this prom like some kind of debut. You’ve been starving yourself for three weeks (with more than a little coaching from your mother), and it’s working. You feel good about yourself, even though you sense something vaguely wrong with this state of affairs. The truth is, the pressure you feel to be thin is mostly external. Who are you starving yourself for, Harriet? Not Terrence Osier.

The A-line design is supposed to be slimming. But it’s all wrong, your mother says. The hem is too high. Your kneecaps look like frozen game hens. Your ankles look fat. When the woman tailor, who does not disagree, brings the hem down, you look squat. It’s enough to exasperate your mother.

You’ve been absorbing it your whole life, Harriet. Every time you pick up a fork or form an opinion. You’re sick of it, sick of wondering what is wrong with you that you can’t please your mother. Like a wicked den mother, she nits and picks and criticizes you constantly, so much that you’re convinced she doesn’t even mean to, that it’s a compulsion. Why does she seek always to improve you, as though it’s her life’s work? And why do you take it to heart? Is it because you already know that you’ll never be all that you could have been? Because you’ll never be able to tell your own story the way you want to tell it? Because you haven’t got the courage? Isn’t it enough that your father believes in you, Harriet? Your father, who, according to your mother, is naive, in spite of all appearances, and doesn’t understand the ways of the world. Your father who’s been blinded by his rose-colored glasses. Your father who wants to see a princess in every warthog. Your father who has no idea what it is to be a woman. You may be his princess, he may think the world of you, he may pull some strings for you, honey, but you’ll always be a woman in a man’s world, mark my words.

And nobody wants a girl with fat ankles.

Okay, so not the first time your mother’s been wrong, oh no, not by a long shot. Turns out, Terrence Osier doesn’t give a whit about fat ankles, Terrence Osier is primarily interested in breasts. He spends forty minutes after the dance, all chin and elbows, groping to get at your ample pair in the backseat of the green-and-yellow Chevy Bel Air his parents bought him. But not before Terrence wins a debate on the subject, which is — let’s be honest — brief, not that you have any interest in being fondled, rather because you always aim to please. The fact is, any sort of petting makes you vastly uncomfortable.