Caroline’s been gone less than two minutes when Harriet feels a familiar presence beside her in bed: Bernard.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says from behind the cover of his newspaper. “Maybe cut Skipper a little slack,” he says. “He’s desperate, you know.”
“That’s what Caroline says.”
“She’d know.”
“But selling my house from under me, locking me away in a nursing home? And not even having the courage to do it himself. What really gets me is he could have just asked for help.”
Bernard lowers his newspaper, his eyes scanning the room nervously. “We all could have. The point is, Skip’s on the ropes. Hell, half of America is. He’s not in his right mind, at least he wasn’t when he hatched this ridiculous plot. It’s amazing the things we can talk ourselves into when we’re desperate for a result. And really, maybe it’s not such a bad plan, after all. You’re gonna break your neck on those basement stairs one of these days if you’re not careful. You can’t possibly handle that big yard by yourself.”
“I chose that house. And I choose it still.”
“Whatever you say. I’m running out of time here. We both are, Harriet. You forgave Caroline. Now forgive Skip. Go easy on him.”
“I went pretty easy on you, didn’t I?”
“You did, yes. And forgive yourself while you’re at it. That’s the biggest one of all.”
They retreat into silence. After a moment, Bernard peels the covers back, rolls up his newspaper like a baton, taps it decisively once upon his lap, and climbs out of bed.
“Well, I think this is it, Harriet.”
“You’re leaving?”
“I have to. No time to explain, but I haven’t got a choice.”
“What will happen to me?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
Standing now, he looks down on her sympathetically. “Amounts to the same thing. I’m sorry I made a mess of us. Of everything, really. I could have been more, a lot more.”
“What will happen to you?”
“Nothing.”
God, but Harriet wants to reach out and touch him one last time, to grab hold of him and never let go. But she’s stuck in place, unable to budge, held there in bed by some invisible force akin to gravity.
“What are you?” she says. “You owe me that much. A ghost, an angel, a dream?”
Crow’s-feet bunch at the corners of his eyes. “It’s not for me to say.”
There’s something timeless etched beneath their gray-green veneer, some truth or recognition regarding the nature of existence, some celestial reckoning, Harriet is sure of it. But hard as she tries to apprehend it, it is simply beyond her reach.
Bernard backs away from the bed slowly, a sheepish smile on his face. “Well, here goes nothing,” he says.
In that instant, the key latch clicks and the cabin door swings open.
Still backing away, Bernard blows her a kiss.
“Don’t go,” she says.
“Mom?” says Caroline, from the doorway. “What’s up? You’re doing it again.”
“No, no, dear. Just thinking aloud.”
When Harriet turns back to Bernard, he’s gone, disappeared into thin air.
Caroline stoops to pick Bernard’s rolled-up newspaper off of the floor, tossing it absently on the coffee table. “Maybe Ketchikan is too much, Mom. Maybe we should just stay aboard tomorrow, watch some movies, order room service.”
“Heavens, no,” says Harriet. “I wouldn’t hear of it. It’s our last stop, dear.”