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.
August 23, 2015 (HARRIET AT SEVENTY-EIGHT)
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.”
“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.