Jonathan Evison - This is Your Life, Harriet Chance!

“Harriet Chance,” she says.

“So what’d y’all think of them glaciers?”

“Glaciers, dear? Oh yes, glaciers.”

“Mom’s a little confused this morning,” Caroline explains.

“Couldn’t barely move with all them people up on deck,” Kurt observes. “Thing of it is, I don’t know about y’all, but I felt all alone up there. No matter that the lady behind me kept proddin’ me with her camera bag or that some kid nearly upchucked on my shoe. I felt like the last person on earth. Like I was standin’ at the pearly gates and everyone else was inside already. Left behind, that’s how it felt. Somethin’ about all that ice, I reckon. All that big white silence. Put me in the mind to gamble, if you know what I mean?”

“Dear,” says Harriet. “Would you happen to know what this green matter on my plate is? It looks like some kind of chard.”

That’s the last thing Harriet says before she feels the world tilt sideways, as though the ship has been tossed by a giant swell. The next thing she knows, her head is in Mr. Pickens’s lap.

Harriet is back to her old self by the time Caroline and Kurt have wheeled her down to the ship’s infirmary, where a very tan, bushy-browed, vaguely familiar gentleman named Frankel, wearing a stethoscope, tends to Harriet, though not before he’s forced to pry the yogurt container from her grasp.

“Are you diabetic?”

“No,” says Harriet.

“Any irregularities in blood sugar?”

“No.”

“Low blood pressure?”

“No.”

“Hypertension?”

“A little.”

“Are you taking any medication?”

“Well, yes, I am taking a number of things.”

At length, Harriet lists her prescriptions. Fosamax, Celebrex, and down the line. The doctor begins cocking a brow halfway through the inventory.

“Impressive,” he says. “Slowly now, I’m going to ask you to sit up.” He cradles her head in his hands as Harriet eases herself upright, Caroline and Wayan lending a hand.

When she’s sitting up on the bed, Frankel holds up a finger, instructing Harriet to follow its progress, side to side.

“She’s tracking,” he announces. “Any nausea?”

“No.”

“Palpitations, sweating?”

“No.”

“My feet feel heavier than usual, though.”

“How long has this been going on? The disorientation?” This query seems to be directed more at Caroline than Harriet.

“Mom?”

“It hasn’t,” says Harriet.

“So this was just an isolated incident? No history of short term-memory loss?”

“Nothing like this,” says Harriet. “It was the strangest thing. One minute, I was—”

“Actually,” interjects Caroline. “She’s had a couple of episodes recently. Right, Mom?”

Harriet looks down at her lap. “I have been a little out of sorts,” she admits.

“She’s been having dreams.”

“Dreams?”

“About my fa—. About her husband,” says Caroline. “He died last year.”

“I see. I’m sorry,” says Dr. Frankel. “First, I’m going to recommend rest. This could simply be a little hypoperfusion we’re dealing with, exacerbated by exhaustion, shock, any number of things.” Or,” he says, “there could be another pathology at work. You don’t remember anything from this morning?”

“Nothing before the buffet.”

“And last night?”

“Not much.”

“Okay, here’s what I recommend,” Frankel says, more to Caroline than Harriet. “That you take it easy in Ketchikan. In fact, I’m going to have to insist. Not trying to scare you here, but I don’t want to rule out the possibility of something more serious. When you return to the states, you undergo some testing. I’d schedule a CT right away. Rule out a few possibilities. Find out what — if anything — is going on here. No reason to speculate and no reason to panic. I’m not ready to call this anything. This is nothing too out of the ordinary for someone her age. But. .”

Harriet doesn’t like the way he said but. Or the way he left it hanging there. Like he knew something. She tries to chase away a sudden uneasiness.

“Will it happen again?” says Caroline.

“There’s really no way of knowing. It could, yes. Which is why I insist you take it easy. And I think it’s best that somebody stay with her at all times. We wouldn’t want her taking a fall. If there’s any pressure building in there, we wouldn’t want. . look, just take it easy. Schedule the tests.”

As Caroline and Kurt wheel her back to the cabin, Harriet finds herself embarrassed by all the fuss. For once, she wishes she were invisible.

“This wheelchair is totally unnecessary,” she complains, still clutching the empty yogurt tub.

“Mom, you heard him, you’re supposed to take it easy.”

“Y’all are welcome to push me instead,” says Kurt breathlessly.

“Really, Mom. Don’t be stubborn. I know this is tough for you. But you just gotta go with the program.”

More than frightened, more than humbled, even, Harriet is grateful for Caroline’s presence. She seems so much more together, so much more capable than she was forty-eight hours ago.

At the cabin door, Harriet and Caroline thank Kurt and bid him farewell.

“He’s nice,” says Caroline after she shuts the door.

In spite of Harriet’s protestations, Caroline clutches her under the arms, assisting her out of the wheelchair and onto the bed, then promptly turns on the television without asking.

“Do you want any water or anything, Mom?”

“No, dear, thank you.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Not in the least.”

“Look, just stay put for a few minutes, okay? I’ve gotta go down the hall for a sec.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve gotta let Skip know what’s going on.”

“Frankly, I don’t see as how he’s entitled to an update, Caroline. For heaven’s sake, he tried to swindle his own mother. All he ever had to do is ask. He didn’t even have the courage to do it himself. Let him sweat it out, Caroline. Let him think about his actions.”

“Mom, I told him I’d let him know. He really does worry about you, that much is true.”

On her way out the door, Caroline indicates the empty yogurt container with a nod.

“And Mom,” she says. “Maybe it’s time to let go, huh?”

As far as decisions go, you’ve certainly made worse in your day, possibly even more far-reaching, considering your husband is ninety years old, and let’s face it, nobody’s been busy planning a birthday party. But you’ve never made a decision quite this difficult. Yes, on one level it’s a no-brainer (sorry, bad metaphor), but on another level it’s unthinkable (oops, did it again).

If that first drive to Sherwood Arms was long, the drive to St. Joseph Med in Tacoma is interminable. Once again, you slump in the backseat of Skip’s SUV, which smells even more florid than usual. This you know, because Skip keeps politely cracking his window.

None of this seems real. It feels as if somebody, without warning, has pulled the plug on the rest of your life.

Okay, bad metaphor again.

The point is, more than anything else, the suddenness of your grief has you reeling. You have no idea what your life looks like after today. Hard as you try, you can’t even see tomorrow.

You hate seeing him this way, arranged corpselike, lips and extremities bloodless, respirators jammed up his nose, heart monitors beating, IVs dripping. This is even less your Bernard than was the man who recently spit in your face and accused you of trying to poison him, the man who tried to eat a remote control. But none of this makes it any easier, does it, Harriet? Because some part of you wants to believe there’s still hope. You’ve got to believe. You weren’t sleeping all those years in church.