“Not … remembering?”
“No,” I answer curtly. “I’m not remembering anything.”
I wish I could check my phone to see if Trina messaged me that she’s running late, but it’s in my purse. I’d have to have Harriett dig it out for me, maybe even enter the passcode to unlock it, since the exercises really have me aching. She has, and she would, but I’m trying hard not to ask her to do that sort of thing for me anymore.
“I wish you’d told me, that’s all. I can still take you. I need to go to the drugstore and pick up your prescription refills. And run some … errands.” Harriett is already looking around for her coat.
I know errands means cigarettes, although she won’t admit it. You won’t ever catch her smoking. She does it in secret, like you can’t smell it on her clothes and breath. I don’t judge her for it. We all do things we don’t want anyone else to know about.
I glance toward the kitchen cabinet. Through the glass doors I can see the lineup of pill bottles. I have always hated the glass-front cabinets. They put everything on display, so everything has to be neat and tidy all the time. It stresses me out.
“I thought you said you already got—?”
“Oh yes, well. Of course. I’m just all flustered now.” Her hands flap as she frowns. “I’m just all discombobulated, Diana. Let me grab my coat and keys.”
I’ve never said a word to Jonathan or Harriet herself about possible memory issues on her part. Feels too close to home, I guess. Anyway, we don’t talk much about anything anymore, Jonathan and I. At least not anything important, and in this moment I wonder, did we ever?
Gently, I say, “I’ve already made plans with my friend.”
“But I was just about to put the roast in the oven—” Harriett falls silent when I shake my head.
“Don’t worry about it. I appreciate it, but you really don’t have to make anything.”
She presses her lips together. I’ve hurt her feelings. “I was only trying to help.”
“I know. Thank you. I do appreciate it.” I’m not lying. I’d have starved without her cooking these past weeks.
“I’ll just text Jonathan to make sure he’s going to be late.”
“Be my guest. I’ve still got plans.” I snap the response, not meaning to sound so nasty, but I don’t want to be the one to tell my husband’s mother that he’s messing around, and every time he misses dinner, the likelihood grows that I’ll have to. If I have to tell her, I will have to tell him that I know, and after that … I’m not ready to think about what happens after that.
I can see this throws her. When I first met Harriett Richmond about twelve years ago, she was the volunteer contact for Sunny Days Adoption Services, the children’s charity my company supported. I’d been tasked with updating their office’s ancient security system, so I spent a lot of time working with her. Jonathan’s father had died long before I met her, but I’d always known that Harriett’s life had been built around taking care of her husband and son. I understand that it would never have occurred to her that she could go out with a girlfriend and leave her husband at home to fend for himself, but this woman has known me for a long time. At no point in my marriage have I ever given any indication that wifehood was the reason for my existence.
“He works so hard. He was late yesterday too. Last week, I don’t think he made it home before seven any day except Friday. And then he’s always going out to the gym so late at night too.”
“He works as hard as he has to,” I say cryptically, but fortunately his mother doesn’t take it as anything but praise.
Harriett sighs and purses her lips. “Have you thought about when you’ll go back to work?”
“I haven’t.”
I don’t have to go back to work, not for a while at least. I took the early retirement package and payout I was offered when my company underwent restructuring, and that happened, conveniently, only a couple weeks before the time when my mind goes dark. Jonathan had encouraged me to take the summer off and spend as much time as I could at the beach house. Back then, I’d thought it was generous. I know the truth, now, about why he wanted me gone as much as possible.
“No wonder he has to work late so often, paying all the bills.” She mutters this, not quite soft enough so I don’t hear it.
Anxiety and anger knot my stomach, but I draw in a breath to keep my voice steady when I answer her. Yelling at Harriett is like chastising a kitten. Even if it’s being naughty, you hate yourself for doing it. “I love your pot roast. You know what would be great? If you left it for me in the fridge. Can you try to remember to slice it up first?”
“Well. My goodness. I suppose I certainly could. Even if you won’t be home to eat it at dinner time, and I was making it especially for you.” Harriett can’t hide the trembling of her chin.
I’ve still managed to hurt her feelings. Great. Now I feel guilty again. I guess that will give me one more thing to talk to Dr. Levitt about. If I’d known wrecking my car was going to be what drove me into therapy finally, I might have started reckless driving sooner.
I know I can be a bit standoffish, but I am not a monster. I can’t hug her with both my arms still in slings, but I try to sort of press myself against her so she can hug me. Gently.
“I’ll let you know next time if I plan to go out, so you don’t expect to make dinner,” I promise.
“Of course you want to spend time with your friends. I understand. Don’t you worry a second about it.” Harriett pats my back. “I’ll just finish up the pot roast and leave it for you. But you text me when you get home, all right? Or else I’ll worry.”
“I will. I promise.”
My phone buzzes from my purse. I assume it’s Trina, telling me she’s in the driveway. I get up from the small kitchen table and use the tips of my fingers to snag the strap of my purse. At only an inch over five feet tall, everything about Harriett is petite, tiny, delicate. Standing beside her, I’m gargantuan, even after the weight I’ve lost. I’m bumbling, clumsy. There’s no way I can get a coat on, and November in Pennsylvania can be more than chilly. They’re calling for snow before Thanksgiving this year.
“Can you help me with my shawl?”
I wince at the minor weight of my bag, a tiny clutch with a thin strap, just big enough to hold my phone and wallet. I can’t carry my usual tote-sized bag. Still, I always feel like I’m forgetting something—well, I am. Almost half a year of my life.
Harriett helps sling my shawl over my shoulders, taking an extra minute to tuck it closed at my throat. I have become the child she seems to wish I would be. Maybe we both wish it. Such a simple gesture, but I feel it deep inside. The caring. The concern. It’s good to feel loved, and if sometimes, just sometimes, Harriett’s love also feels a tiny bit like I’m being strangled … well, nothing good comes without a catch.
She goes with me to the front door and waves goodbye as Trina helps me with the passenger door. Harriett lingers, watching from the doorway as Trina buckles me in with a laugh. I shift to help her, both of us giggling at the absurdity of how difficult it is to situate me.