Jonathan Evison - This is Your Life, Harriet Chance!

On the edge of town, the bus squawks to an abrupt halt alongside a guano-streaked retaining wall, triggering an explosion of seagulls. One gull remains on the concrete perch after the others have scattered. A miserable creature from all appearances, disheveled and stained, hopping listlessly along on one leg, the other leg missing completely. There’s clearly a problem with the remaining leg. As the bird hops closer, Harriet sees that above the lone foot a wire bread tie is wound hopelessly around its ankle, so snug it almost looks as if the leg has started to grow around it. The best it can do is drag the wire along behind it. Eventually, the handicap will catch up with it, Harriet figures, and the bird will be unable to care for itself, and it will die. Until then, it will suffer, with no better sense than to try and survive.

After a few hops along the wall, it arrives directly in front of Harriet’s window, not two feet from her face, where it stops and looks in on her intently, as though it thinks she might have something for it. She wishes she did — it surprises her how much she wishes. As the bus pulls away with a groan and a black belch of diesel, Harriet feels, for the second time in an hour, her eyes begins to mist over.

But for a slight headache, Harriet is back to normal by the time the bus drops them downtown. Caroline pilots the wheelchair along the wharf, past the kiosks and gem shops, then up the hill and back down, Kurt wheezing like a ruptured balloon. The three of them converse pleasantly on a host of subjects.

In the afternoon, they eat lunch right on the water, the surf lapping at the piles beneath their feet, the gulls sounding their urgent cries. Harriet orders salmon cooked on a cedar plank, garnished with lemon and dill. Kurt orders a chopped salad, and when that’s not enough to curb his appetite, he refills his water three times and bravely gnaws on an orange rind. Caroline seems perfectly at ease sipping her club soda, now and then turning her face to the wind. The monkey’s fist never leaves her purse.

It’s not every day that there’s order in the universe, Harriet Chance, so enjoy this: Breathe deeply of that salty air, really let it fill your lungs. Feel that coho melt on your tongue, feel it slide down your throat like butter. Sink into that easy conversation. Feel that breeze blowing through your thin, white hair. Taste that lemon, Harriet. Wince with pain and pleasure. Laugh, sigh, and massage your aching joints under the table. And while you’re at it, take a good long look at your smiling daughter across the table, the lines of her face moving in new directions, one hour, one day at a time. Recognize and give thanks for the crisp edges and heightened sensations of these moments, for they are precious. Remember them until you are no longer able.

Live, Harriet, live! Live like this salty breath is your last.

Back on the Zuiderdam , Harriet boards the elevator with Caroline and Kurt. Other than the slight headache, she can’t complain, although it’s true that she’s suddenly very tired. And something else, slightly giddy, and now that you mention it, a little lightheaded. And then there’s the slight pinching at the base of her skull, which is not part of the general headache, but something sharper.

“Y’all were swell, having me along for the day,” says Kurt. “Those eagles were somethin’ else. How about you, Harriet, what was your favorite part?”

When Harriet doesn’t answer, Caroline intercedes, seizing her elbow gently.

“Mom.”

“Yes, dear?”

“Kurt just asked you a question.”

“Oh. What was it, dear?”

“What was the highlight for you? Today, I mean.”

Somehow Harriet is staring at her own reflection, and this is confusing.

“I think I liked the eagles,” Kurt rejoins, after a pause.

“Mom,” says Caroline, squeezing her elbow harder. “What was the highlight?”

The question, like the reflection staring back at her, is disorienting. Even as the elevator begins to rise, Harriet has forgotten where she is.

“You okay, Mom?”

“Oh. Yes.”

The truth is, Harriet is woozy — very woozy, in fact. All her blood seems to be rushing to her legs.

“Mom, you don’t look good.”

When the elevator door opens, Caroline leads Harriet out by the elbow. Harriet can hardly keep her eyes open as she steps onto the hideous carpet of Rotterdam.

“I think we should get a doctor,” she hears Caroline say.

Then Harriet is weightless.

When she open her eyes, Caroline and Kurt are as two disembodied heads floating above her. Their mouths are moving, and though Harriet can hear the dull intonations of their voice, just above the rushing of blood in her ears, she has no idea what they’re saying.

You’ve been fading in and out the past hour or so. Strangely, you’re in less pain than usual. Apparently, among your body’s diminished capacities is the capacity to feel discomfort. Mostly, you feel feverish and slow-witted, as they wheel you down the corridor in a gurney and up the elevator to the open air of the observation deck.

The wind stirs the downy hairs on your face, as you clutch your daughter’s hand.

“It’s gonna be okay, Mom.”

You are calm, almost complacent, as your thoughts slow to a trickle and the blood runs thick through your veins. Soon you hear a distant thrumming, like rolling thunder from beyond the hills. The sound draws progressively nearer, until it’s deafening, and your white hair is blowing crazily, and your teeth are practically chattering from the vibration.

Caroline sits with you in the medivac, still clutching your hand. Gently encouraging you to relax, not to worry. You want to tell her that you love her, but you can’t. You should have told her a long time ago, but now you can hardly move your lips. Your voice is a wisp, unintelligible over the thundering blades of the chopper.

Above you, the clouds are breaking. You manage to raise your head a few inches and tilt it just slightly. Look once more at the world, three hundred feet below, the silver expanse of choppy ocean, like hammered steel, the furrowed green foothills to the east, and the great sudden mountains crouching patiently beyond. At five hundred feet, you can see the curvature of the earth. Fear not, Harriet, it will keep spinning in your absence.

If we’ve learned one thing digging up all these old bones, dusting them off, and holding them to the light, we’ve learned this: While the days unfold, one after the other, and the numbers all move in one direction, our lives are not linear, Harriet. We are the sum of moments and reflections, actions and decisions, triumphs, failures, and yearnings, all of it held together, inexplicably, miraculously, really, by memory and association. Yes, Harriet, our lives are more sinew than bone.

As the sun, in its waning, westerly aspect, slants pinkly through the chopper window, you feel, for the first time since you were a toddler, the irrepressible pull of that vortex toward some distant horizon.

The author would like to gratefully acknowledge to following people: first, the courageous women in my life, the women who have nurtured me, educated me, disciplined me, sacrificed for me, suffered for me, and never forsaken me; my mom, my grandma, my sisters, my wife, and my third grade teacher, Mrs. Hanford, to name a few. The women who have often settled for less, the women who’ve never quite gotten their fair share, who have soldiered on in the face of inequity, frustration, and despair, who have forgiven beyond reasonable measure, absorbed beyond reasonable expectation, and given, given, given with no promise of recompense. I wanted to thank them with this portrait of one woman, inspired by all of them, from the moment of her conception, to her last breath. Also, for their input, collaboration, and support: Mollie Glick, Emily Brown, Chuck “Pops” Adams, Kelly Bowen, Craig Popelars, Lauren Moseley, Brunson Hoole, Jude Grant, Brooke Csuka, Elisabeth Scharlatt, Debra Linn, and everyone else at the Gonk. For their inspiration and assistance: Rebecca and Tim Dowling, Bryan Roper, Lydia Williams, Jessie Jameson, Janet Woodman, and MaryJo Caruso. And finally, a big thanks to my early readers: Mark Krieger, Joseph Rakowski, Joshua Mohr, and Aaron Cance.