Jonathan Evison - This is Your Life, Harriet Chance!

“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?”

Well, 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.

When 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.