The Misery of Safety

Harriet woke up on Thursday morning at 6:15, just like she did every single morning of every single week of every single year. She used the bathroom, put on her robe and slippers and headed out to her kitchen. She popped the little pod into her coffee maker, made her daily cup of coffee, added exactly two tablespoons of light cream and sat down to drink it while skimming her email. She allowed herself exactly twenty minutes every day, then headed to the bathroom where she flossed and brushed her teeth before hopping into a very hot shower. She always started by washing her hair and applying conditioner, which she left on while she washed her face, rinsing it out before proceeding to wash the rest of her body and shave her legs and armpits. This regimen took exactly seven minutes. She squeegeed the shower door and grabbed a towel, wrapping herself tightly before stepping back into her bedroom. As always, her clothes had been carefully laid out the night before, and after applying body lotion and allowing it to dry, she stepped into her outfit of the day. She sat down on the foot of the bed to put her shoes on, and suddenly began to cry. She was inexplicably overcome with sadness at the fact that her life had become so horribly, boringly routine. Ever since her mother had disappeared when she was twelve, she had become more and more bound by habit and predictability.

Harriet’s mother, Sybil, had been so beautiful and so full of life! Her parents had divorced, very amicably, when Harriet was six, and they were such friendly exes that Harriet didn’t even feel the normal disappointment associated with being the child of divorced parents. Her parents loved each other, but were so very different from one another that they understood that they would be better as dear friends and co-parents to their darling Harriet. Harriet spent an equal amount of time with each, feeling so loved and so lucky. Her mother was fearless and adventurous – she went to Peru to see the ruins at Machu Pichu, climbed Mt. Whitney, went on three-month yoga retreats in Tulum every winter. She went dancing and bike-riding and she dated a lot. She was so carefree and Harriet wanted to be just like her. She never introduced her daughter to the men she went out with; they weren’t serious relationships, just people to spend time and have fun with. Harriet felt like she was living the adventures with her mother – though in reality she was more of an awe-filled spectator.

Harriet would play in Sybil’s closet, trying to dress up like her mother while she got ready for dates, standing next to her at the mirror and trying to apply makeup just like Sybil did while waiting for her father to arrive to either stay with her or take her to his place, where they would cook dinner together, eat and play some type of board or card game. She would have a bath and be tucked snuggly into bed by 9:00. Harriet loved the two parts of her life; her unpredictable, fun-loving mother and her calm, stable father. Raymond adored Harriet as much as Sybil did and was grateful for the unconventional relationship he shared with his ex-wife. He couldn’t imagine doing divorce the way some of his friends and colleagues did – seeing Harriet only every other weekend, with an occasional weeknight dinner in between. No, he and Sybil were doing it right, and he was sure that Harriet would benefit greatly.

As Harriet sat sadly on her bed that morning, she was overcome with memories of her mother. Sybil would sleep until she woke, no alarms for her. Her work as a freelance artist and graphic designer allowed her this luxury. Harriet learned to get herself up and ready for school by the time she was in first grade, dressing, combing her strawberry-blond hair, pouring cereal and milk into a bowl and eating before brushing her teeth. She always kissed her sleeping mother before heading out to catch the bus. She loved the weekend mornings when she could be there when Sybil woke. They would have tea with milk together and Sybil would usually spend this time writing in her small black notebook. Harriet didn’t know how many of these identical notebooks her mother had filled, nor what she was writing about. It occurred to Harriet now, that she had no idea what had become of the notebooks. She laid back on her bed, fully dressed, and began to sink into memories. Harriet thought of that night – the last time she saw her mother. She’d been excited for her evening, as she was going out with someone new. She looked so pretty as she got ready for her date. Raymond was going to stay with Harriet at Sybil’s place this particular night so that she could see her mother in the morning before heading off on an overnight school field-trip the next morning. Sybil hugged her twelve-year-old daughter goodbye and floated out the door to meet her date. That was the last time Harriet, or Raymond, ever saw her. She simply never returned. They didn’t even know the name of the person she was going out with. The police investigation went on for years and though they talked with people who had seen Sybil having dinner at a sidewalk café or dancing at a club downtown, no one could remember who she was with, and there were no leads as to what happened after that. It was as though she had disappeared in a puff of smoke.

As the years moved on, and Harriet and Raymond tried to achieve some normalcy, Harriet became more and more rigid in her habits. She didn’t like to deviate from her routines and felt panicky if she ever had to. The idea of being as carefree as her mother was gone and even the thought terrified her. In her mind, unpredictability led to danger and tragedy.

Harriet got up, patted her face with a tissue, and left for work. She called her father from the train to chat and to ask him what became of her mother’s little black notebooks, making plans to visit him over the weekend and look through the boxes from Sybil’s house that were in a dark corner of Raymond’s attic. On Saturday morning, Harriet arrived at her father’s house just in time for him to serve her the teddy bear pancakes with crispy bacon he’d made for her as a child. As they chatted, Raymond excused himself and returned with a shoebox that had been sealed with what looked like a whole roll of packing tape. On the lid of the box, the words, “For Harriet” were written in Sybil’s gorgeous handwriting. Raymond said, “I thought I'd get a head start sorting through some of the boxes. This was at the bottom of a box full of shoes and handbags. I’m not sure what the movers were thinking putting it there.” When the time had come to move from Sybil’s place once and for all, neither Raymond nor Harriet had been ready to look through her things or make decisions about them, so they’d hired movers to simply pack everything and move the boxes to Raymond’s house. This morning, as Raymond held the shoebox on his lap, tears were shining in his eyes. He had never wanted Harriet to become such a shell of her childhood self and felt guilty for being so relieved that he could always count 100% on knowing exactly where she would be at any given time. Sybil had been gone for fourteen years and Harriet had been playing it safer and safer with each passing year. She worked a job she hated for barely enough money to pay her bills because it was predictable and mundane. Harriet was a gifted artist like her mother, but here she was, wasting her life at a job transcribing freight tickets into a database for a shipping company, earning a salary so paltry it was ridiculous. She was shaking as she took the box from Raymond, not sure she was ready, but feeling a little bit of excitement for the first time in many years. Her father handed her a pair of scissors to get through the tape, and finally she could lift the lid. She held her breath and opened the box. Inside, the contents were wrapped in brightly colored tissue paper; all except for a small black notebook sitting on top. With trembling hands, she picked up the little black book and opened the cover. There, like a ghost, was a note from her mother. “Darling Harriet, my lovely daughter, my whole heart: You are growing more beautiful and more intelligent every day. I see the very best of your father and me in you and I am so very proud of the young woman you are becoming. I know you will be more practical than I am as you become an adult, and that’s probably a good thing. But, my special girl, please remember to spread your wings and fly sometimes too. Please go on adventures and learn new things, try new foods, learn a foreign language! I’ve taken the commission from my most recent design job and put it away for you to take a trip or a class, or anything your wild heart desires – on me. I love you and can’t wait to look at the pictures from whatever adventure you choose! With never ending love, Mom.” Tears were cascading down Harriet’s cheeks as she turned the pages of the book to find sketches of mountains, waterfalls, birds, dancers, oceans and more. She handed the book to her father and carefully opened the tissue wrapped packet. There, wrapped in tissue that smelled faintly of her mother’s perfume, were neatly stacked bundles of twenty dollar bills; twenty thousand dollars in all. And in that moment, her fears fell away. She knew that her mother would not have changed anything about her life even if she knew what could happen – Harriet knew that she hadn’t been living at all, but rather existing in a life that was worse than anything that she was afraid of. She threw her arms around Raymond, who by now was sobbing uncontrollably. She was free. She could feel her mother’s presence, and it didn’t scare her – she, at the age of twenty-six, was finally prepared to start living.