I wish I could say I returned home to Toronto and got right down to fanning my newly rekindled writing spark after visiting Harriet that summer. But life happened. I got promoted, got fired, got sober, started teaching. I married, had a baby, and battled breast cancer. During all this, I continued jotting down ideas, but then they sat, in desk drawers and daytimers, quietly waiting, unexplored.
Harriet and I kept up our regular letter writing. Soon after I got sober, I thought of a possible way to get some publicity for her work. I knew a Vancouver radio producer named Dave who might be interested in Harriet’s study of hand analysis. Dave was always looking for interesting items for his afternoon current events show. Getting a spot on the radio might introduce her research to a wider audience – perhaps she could even find a publisher. She had helped me, now I would help her.
I called to tell Harriet. She sounded excited about the idea. I reminded her that this initial phone meeting would be to pitch the idea of her work to the producer. I cautioned her it was hard to predict what items interested him, but it was worth a shot. Harriet thanked me profusely, and soon, I had a phone meeting set up between them. She said she would call me after they’d spoken.
The day after her phone call with the producer, I didn’t hear from her. I was busy and didn’t think much of it, even though that was very unHarriet. I told myself she was likely excited and preparing for her radio spot. Life for me was busy. I was writing sketch comedy now and working late nights. She was sure to follow up with me at some point, I told myself. She’d let me know the outcome when she could.
A month later, a letter arrived from Harriet. It was on pink paper, the handwriting more erratic than usual. The phone call had gone badly, she wrote. And while she wasn’t upset with me, “the fellow” was very skeptical and bordered on rude with his questions. He was condescending. He was not kind. She was sorry she had ever thought this would be a good thing. She should have known better. She re-emphasized that this was in no way my fault. Even so, I felt a stab of guilt. Had I said something negative about Harriet when I talked to Dave? Had I set her up to be disappointed? I was trying to help. Her whole letter bristled with hurt and outrage. Signing off, she thanked me for trying, assuring me one last time I wasn’t to blame. But she wouldn’t be doing “that” ever again.
I quickly wrote back saying how sorry I was that she’d had a bad experience. I limply encouraged her to continue to try to get her work recognized; it was so interesting and different etc, etc. But inwardly, I resolved not to offer my help again. Friendship with Harriet had become a lot of emotional work. Looking back, I now know I didn’t see how vulnerable she was.
Three months passed with no word from Harriet. I finally found time to call her. She answered in her upbeat, singsong hello. But when she heard my voice, hers turned flat. She curtly asked why I was calling. When I told her I wanted to see how she was, she replied. “Why would it matter to you? After what you’ve put me through. There is no reason I would want to talk to you now…” She continued on. She didn’t want my help. And she never wanted to hear from me again. I started to speak but before I could make a sound, the dial tone droned in my ear. What had just happened? How could she be so angry with me? She had said in her letter she didn’t blame me for the experience, but it was clear now she did. I called again twice over the next month, but she hung up as soon as she heard my voice.
At first, I was hurt and angry. Then, after the shock wore off, I decided my elderly friend must have finally slipped into dementia. This thought neatly absolved me of my guilt. Her response was just an unhinged overreaction to someone trying to help. But when all that burned off, I was left with sadness. I was sad that she was so hurt by my actions, sad that I couldn’t summon the will to follow up with her to see if she was okay, sad that I had lost a friend. I pictured her in her little house floating unmoored and alone in her sea of hands. Had she finally drowned in them?
I never heard what happened to Harriet. I’ve searched unsuccessfully for her online. It’s unlikely she is still alive, but I can’t find any government records of her death. I don’t know where she ended up or even if she had family. She had never mentioned any. And I hadn’t asked.
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