Truthfully, the dull ache in my collarbones has ramped up from doing those exercises, and I do want those pills. I want a glass of wine with Trina even more, though, and I’m not about to mix pain meds and alcohol. My last dose was last night before I went to bed. Since then, I’ve thought about taking more meds about every fifteen minutes or so, but the promise of a perfectly chilled glass of chardonnay, maybe even two, has held me off. I can’t remember the last time I relaxed with a glass of wine and a good friend. Literally cannot recall.
Her frown knits her brows together. “You’re going to end up hurting yourself even more. I wish you’d just let me help you.”
Why do you have to be so stubborn, so ungrateful? is the thought that comes to my mind. Harriett doesn’t say that, of course. That’s my mother’s voice talking, the voice I have not quite learned to ignore, even after all these years.
“You do too much for me,” I tell her.
Harriett flutters and blushes as though I’ve paid her a compliment, which was not my intent. “Oh, hush. I’m happy to do it. You know I am.”
Oh yes. I know how Harriett is. I knew it before I married her son a decade ago. Back then, I thought she was exactly the sort of mother I’d always wanted. Now … not so much.
Guilt overwhelms me. I used to love Harriett more than my own mother. Somewhere along the way, everything I used to think was so great has become irritating. Smothering.
My husband has always taken this motherly love for granted, but I never have. Because of that, I’m the one who makes sure “he” remembers to order her flowers for Mother’s Day, to make dinner reservations on her birthday, to pick up exactly the sort of flannel nightgown she adores for Christmas. My husband does not appreciate having a mother who cares, so I do it for him. Harriet is probably the only reason I’m still here. If I’m going to be honest, she’s the only reason I’m here at all.
I wish I could remember why I hate her so much now.
“What time is Jonathan going to be home? I’m going to start dinner.” Harriett tosses this over her shoulder as she heads down the hallway toward the kitchen.
I follow. “I don’t know. He’s working late tonight.”
She whirls to face me, her eyes wide. Harriett literally wears pearls, and she literally clutches them. “Again? That’s the third time this week.”
“Again,” I agree mildly.
Harriett keeps closer track of my husband’s schedule than I do. I stopped paying attention to it a long time ago. I mean, up until about six months ago, I had my own career. My own late working nights to worry about. What I know, though, that she obviously does not, is that her son is not at the office all those nights he says he’s working late. He’s sleeping with another woman, that old cliché. Worse than that, it’s my best friend.
“He works too hard,” Harriett says with a frown as she putters with something in the cupboard. Pill bottles rattle. She closes the door and turns. “I’m going to message him. I really wanted him to be home for dinner. It feels like ages since we’ve all been around the same table, like a real family. I’m making pot roast. It used to be his favorite.”
Jonathan has been a vegetarian for as long as I’ve known him. He’s even been leaning toward becoming totally vegan. If pot roast used to be his favorite, it’s far from it now. I do love pot roast, though, especially the way my mother-in-law makes it. All that rich gravy served over mashed potatoes that are swimming in butter. Mushrooms and carrots. A side of peas, cooked just enough so they’re still crisp. I’m a terrible cook. I learned, out of desperation and necessity, the bare minimum required to feed myself so I didn’t starve, but it’s never been one of my accomplishments. I can’t compete with the divine expertise of Harriett’s pot roast.
“Well,” she says, “I suppose I can count my blessings that at least I have you.”
Harriett beams and moves toward me to offer one of what I think of as “Harriett hugs,” an all-encompassing, thoroughly comforting embrace, but stops just short when I make a warning noise. “Oh dear. I keep forgetting not to squeeze you. How’s the pain?”
It’s worse than it was twenty minutes ago, but I don’t want to tell her that. “It’s bearable.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to take any pills? I really think you should.” Her eagle-eye gaze snags on the book I left on the kitchen table, and she’s distracted. “Where did this come from?”
“It’s a library book.”
I got the overdue notice in my email yesterday. I couldn’t remember that I’d checked out that book, but I finally found it on an end table with a bookmark three-quarters of the way through it. I couldn’t bring myself to renew it, not even to find out how it ends. It’s the stupid little things that sting the worst.
“I’ll return it for you,” Harriett says.
“You don’t have to. I’ll take care of it.”
“Don’t be silly, Diana. You don’t want to get a fine.”
“I already owe a fine,” I tell her tightly. “I’m going to take the book back tonight. My friend Trina’s coming to get me in a few minutes.”
Harriett looks confused. “Where are you going?”
“I have an appointment with Dr. Levitt. Trina is picking me up, and we’re going to grab a drink afterward. It’s trivia night.”
“Trina? Driving you? But you didn’t mention an appointment.”
This gives me pause because I most certainly did. “I told you last week.”
“You didn’t,” Harriett insists. “After all, I’ve been the one taking you to all your appointments. You see that doctor on Wednesdays. It’s not Wednesday. I definitely didn’t know you had an appointment with Dr. Levitt today. I would have written it down if you’d mentioned it.”
“She’s going on vacation, so she asked if we could switch to earlier in the week.” I give a guilty look at the large whiteboard on the kitchen wall. Harriett has been so diligent about keeping it updated for me with all of my various doctor appointments and medicine schedules. I hardly ever look at it, and I certainly haven’t ever written anything on it. Writing hurts too much, and anyway, I keep my own lists. “I’m sorry. I thought I said something to you.”
“I’m sure you thought you did, but just … well.” Harriet presses her lips together.
Unlike her son, Harriett won’t actually say the word. Forgot has become a curse word. I’m not sure how to respond to Harriett about that. My amnesia is localized between two points in time. The first, several months before the night of my gallbladder surgery, and the second, when I woke in the hospital after it. Yes, my recollections of that first week after the accident and my surgeries are fuzzy, but they’re not completely blank. To my knowledge, I haven’t been any more forgetful about my daily life than I was before.
“Are you all right? Not having any new … trouble?”
“You mean mentally?” I ask and watch her mouth twist. I know she doesn’t approve of me seeing a psychiatrist, but Harriett would never say so out loud. She’ll drop comments about it, of course. Ask pointed questions. But just say what she means? Never. “I’m fine. It’s just a little rearrangement of the schedule, that’s all. No big deal. I promise.”