Jonathan Evison - This is Your Life, Harriet Chance!

“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.”

Happy 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.

At 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.”