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.”