“Thank you, dear, I’m fine.”
“Anyway, I’m sorry about my mom,” he says, notching his bolo tighter. “She could’ve given you a little warning. You’ve gotta understand, she’s very needy these days, whether she wants to admit it or not. She can’t drive, she can’t hardly boil water without forgetting to turn the burner off. And she’s getting loopier by the day. I’m afraid she’s gonna get herself in trouble trying to do too much, you know? Probably a good thing she’s not going.”
“I do hope she’s okay,” says Harriet, feeling a pang of guilt.
“If you wanna worry about somebody, worry about me. I’m sixty years old, and I’m maxed. Beyond maxed. Upside down. I’ve re-fied twice in the past eighteen months. I don’t even know how I’ll make my mortgage next month without Mom’s help. And this car — ha! I’m two payments behind already.”
Dwight reaches for the glove box again, this time producing a small tin. Harriet’s certain he’s about to offer her a breath mint, when he opens the tin to reveal a number of hand-rolled marijuana cigarettes. Fishing a chrome lighter out of his coat pocket, he lights one of the joints and takes a long pull.
“You’re all right, Harriet Chance,” he says, holding his breath. Bobbing his eyebrows a few times, he offers her the joint.
“Good heavens, no.”
Though Harriet does not approve of smoking grass (legal or not, in automobiles or anywhere else), she’s forced to admit after ten minutes that the marijuana markedly improves Dwight’s driving. Moreover, it seems to take the edge off his personality. He proves to be a delightful conversationalist. Whatever his habits are, whatever his past looks like, Harriet is forced once again to acknowledge her misjudgment of Dwight. She’ll be sure to include an apology in her first postcard to Mildred, whom she finds herself unable to begrudge.
When he drops her at the curb, Dwight circles the car to assist her with her luggage. Extricating her wheelie bag from amid a jumble of real estate placards, he hefts it on the pavement and reaches for his wallet. For an instant, Harriet thinks he’s going to offer her money. But instead, he presents her with a business card.
“Look,” he says. “I appreciate the friend you’ve been to my mom — she appreciates it. You’ve always been there for her. I really wanna help. Anything I can do, just give me a holler. My cell number is right there on the bottom — it’s always on.”
He sets a heavy hand on Harriet’s back and looks down on her with a meaningful gaze.
“Seriously,” he says. “Give me a call. I mean it. I worry.”
May 1, 1986 (HARRIET AT FORTY-NINE)
Yes, yes, we’re all over the place again, pinballing across the decades, slinging and bumping our way through the days of your life, seemingly at random. And yes, pinball has come a long way since the Spot Bowler of your adolescence. They’ve added obstacles, pitfalls, bells, whistles, you name it. But look a little closer, Harriet, and you’ll see there’s a method to the madness, a logic to the game.
Of course, Caroline is on your mind, as you board the ferry in Kingston. Let’s face it, for the ten-thousandth time, it was a mess from the beginning with Caroline, from before the beginning, in fact. God knows we won’t start there. That’s another place you refuse to revisit. But sooner or later, Harriet, you’re gonna have to.
In the meantime, let’s start in 1986.
Look at you, Harriet, in your shoulder pads and billowy sleeves, pushing the big five-oh! Once again, a little fuller of figure, a little longer of tooth. But your hair is, shall we say, very much of the times. Maybe a little young for a lady of your station, though in all fairness, that’s only fitting for a woman who has just reclaimed her independence. That’s right, your children are out of the house! What’s on your flight itinerary, Harriet Chance, now that you’ve finally got that empty nest? Travel? A new hobby? A second shot at a career? What will you do with all those empty rooms? All that extra time?
Not so fast, Harriet.
Ground control, we’ve got a problem: Caroline has failed to launch. And let’s be honest, that’s a bit of an understatement. Not only is your daughter back from college, she won’t leave the nest. As a matter of fact, she won’t even leave her bedroom. She hardly eats, won’t bathe, and doesn’t return phone calls. She won’t respond to your muffled inquiries, beyond three syllables. Softly, you hear the drone of the television, the monotonous pulse of rock music from behind her door. Other than that, not a sound.
Why don’t you walk through that door, Harriet? What’s stopping you, what are you afraid of?
Only late at night does Caroline leave her den, stealing wraithlike to the kitchen, or down the hall to the bathroom. You can hear her down there, so why do you lie in bed listening? Why don’t you put on your slippers and bathrobe, walk down the stairs, and confront her?
The isolation lasts through early spring. And you let it, Harriet. Because, like a ball bearing, your path is smoother without friction. Because as much as you love your daughter, as deeply as you’re attached to her, you cannot (or will not) resolve yourself to certain circumstances precipitating her very existence.
So, what’s Bernard’s excuse? Surely, from behind that crossword he sees his daughter withdrawing, just as sure as the heart of an adolescent woman is totally incomprehensible to him. And then there’s this: if he starts looking too close, he may recognize something he doesn’t want to see. What’s a nine-letter word for turning a blind eye?
Finally, one fine morning, May Day, as it happens, you find Caroline’s bedroom door wide open. Tentatively, you poke your head in, smiling as though the universe is in perfect balance, though there’s pure dread in your heart. The bed is made. The drawers are empty. The record player is gone.
Yes, Harriet, you were worried sick. But admit it — c’mon, I dare you — you were the tiniest bit relieved.
You will not hear from your daughter for the next four months, until she calls you collect from a motel room in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
“Mom,” she will say. “I need help.”
August 19, 2015 (HARRIET AT SEVENTY-EIGHT)
When Harriet disembarks in Edmonds, Caroline’s already waiting at the terminal, stationed like a crossing guard at the head of the gangway, head bobbing above the oncoming stream of commuters. Though Harriet stands a head shorter than anybody else, it would be hard to miss her — a slow eddy in a fast stream as she totters down the ramp, dragging her wheelie bag behind her. Spotting Harriet, Caroline begins waving both hands emphatically and working her way upstream, where she relieves Harriet of the suitcase.
“I’m parked up the hill,” she says. “Do you want to wait here, and I’ll go fetch the car?”
“No, no. I’ll be fine.”
“Where’s Mildred?”
Silence, as Harriet looks down at the back of her hands.
“Where is she, Mom? Does she need help?”
“She’s not coming.”
Caroline stiffens. “What? What do you mean?”
“She canceled.”
“Whoa, wait a minute, Mom. Not coming? What’s wrong with her? Why didn’t you tell me? Does Skip know?”
Harriet averts her eyes.“He wouldn’t have let me come.”
“You’re right.” She fishes her phone out of her purse. “I’m calling Skip.”
Harriet takes hold of her wrist and looks meaningfully into her daughter’s eyes. “Caroline, please.”
Caroline looks curiously back at her for a long moment.
“Let me do this, dear,” says Harriet.