Page 1 of Good Days Bad Days
Chapter 1
Charlie
Present Day
Greetings from Lake Geneva.
The mural is new.
The impressive ten-foot-tall image covers the side of a wall just off Main Street. It looks like a vintage postcard from some fancy tropical vacation destination instead of the small Midwestern resort town of my youth. Right next to it—a Starbucks. Also new.
The smart, trendy mural contrasts the original welcome sign I just drove past half a mile up the road. I remember it from childhood—hand-carved brown slats with gold lettering surrounded by token-like circles representing organizations like the Kiwanis, the Lions, and the Masonic lodge. Back then, it was the official welcome for summer vacationers headed to the beach or winter travelers seeking the closest thing to skiing the Midwest can offer.
I haven’t been back here since Child Protective Services pulled me out of my parents’ house at fifteen. And sure, parts of the town look strangely new, but the view down Broad Street hasn’t changed. A cloudy sheet of ice covers the lake, and a light dusting of snow blows across thefrozen surface, reminding me how I’d walk home from school across the ice directly into my backyard.
Even with the lingering winter gloom replacing the beachy summer vibes, there’s a nostalgic pull to this place. The mansions around the lake, the boat club, the country club, the resorts and spas are all remnants of a once-booming resort town for affluent Chicago families. Over the years, it’s transformed into a playground that’s easily accessible to the average person. No wonder people love it here.
When I was placed in foster care during the fall of my sophomore year of high school, I thought I’d be back home by the time the summer crowd trickled in. I thought my dad would drive up with Mom sitting in the front seat, fling the Subaru’s door open, and we’d go back to the house on the lake together. With our home cleaned up, I’d be able to use the shower like a normal kid instead of having to sneak one in the locker room at school, and I’d be able to put my clothes in my own closet or dresser. We’d sit on the couch in the living room and watch the nightly news and then go into town and get a scoop of pistachio ice cream.
But my dad never came.
I saw him a few times during visitations, but not my mom. When I went to college, I made a choice—I decided never to come back here, at least not until my mom got treatment for her hoarding and my dad stopped ignoring the problem. I gave up hoping for anything to do with my parents decades ago.
Then last week my father called my assistant trying to get through to me. She looked at me with a crinkled forehead when she said, “I think it’s your dad.”
I never talk about my parents. Why should I? Just because they raised me for fifteen years doesn’t mean I owe them a special mention in the acknowledgments section of my life. I’ve allowed occasional calls from my father through the years, though in my opinion, he’s just as guilty as my mother for my parentless existence. I’d always told Dad to stand up to her, let me help clean the house, give her an ultimatum, or leave her. I was really saying,Choose me, Daddy. Please, choose me.
He’d make excuse after excuse until I’d eventually hang up, more hurt by the conversation than the lack of contact.
That’s why this most recent call took me by surprise. His voice sounded old and trembly. He told me Mom had been sent to a long-term care facility after a neighbor called senior services about the state of the house. He said he had three months to get the place cleaned or it’d be condemned. He asked me to help. He also asked me to see Mom one more time.
For some reason, I didn’t know how to say no when my father finally made the call I’d been waiting decades to receive. And that’s why I’m here in Lake Geneva.
I pull into the large asphalt parking lot of the memory care center. It’s been well shoveled and salted after a recent snowstorm. Weather in Wisconsin at the end of February can be intense, especially when your house backs up to a large body of water, like my childhood home. If summers reside in my memory in a playful haze of ice cream on my fingers and sand between my toes, winters dwell in a stuffy room with walls that seem to press in on me as each cold day passes.
I shiver as I exit the car, pulling my coat’s lined hood in closer. I approach the front entrance of the Victorian-style facility with white siding and green shingles. A ramp leads to a spindled porch with modern sliding glass doors.
The doors to Shore Path Memory Care Center swoosh open, followed by another set after a large nonslip mat with the memory center’s name embedded in it. Inside, a twentysomething receptionist in a green polo sits behind a large wooden desk facing a comfortable-looking cluster of padded armchairs and couches.
“Hello! Welcome to Shore Path. Who are you here to visit today?” she asks, her eyes widening as I push my hood off. “Oh!”
“Hi. I’m looking for Betty Laramie.” I answer as though I don’t notice she’s recognized me from my Home and Family Network showSecond Chance Renovation.
I was only stopped twice at the airport for a selfie and once on the plane for an autograph. It’s easier to blend in when I’m alone. When I’m with my six-foot-two husband and costar, Ian, with his rich brown eyes, strong jaw, broad shoulders, and neatly trimmed beard, we can hardly go an hour without being noticed. If he’s wearing any flannel—forget it.
“Oh, wow. Charlie McFadden. Hi.” She waves. Her cheeks flush pink as she clicks her mouse while watching her computer screen until she stops and clears her throat. “Um, Betty Laramie? Yes, there’s a note here. I’ll call back to the nurses’ station.”
“That’s great. Thanks.”
The receptionist dials a number and pauses, nervously clearing her throat as it rings.
“I have to say I’m a huge fan. My mom and I have seen every episode ofSecond Chance Renovation. We have your book—”
“Thank you. You’re too kind,” I say warmly, cutting her off. Thankfully, someone picks up on the other end of the line and I successfully dodge any discussion of my book. Our book. Mine and Ian’s book:Our Second Chance. It was published immediately after the episode featuring our wedding aired, and it spent six weeks onThe New York Timesnonfiction bestsellers list. It told our love story, how we took what we learned from our “failed” first marriages and turned it into a home renovation empire. Too bad it might be more fiction than I first thought.
It’s been a week since I’ve spoken to my husband, other than a few texts and one awkward conference call with the production team to discuss the upcoming season of our home remodeling show.
When I found the messages from a female fan on his social media account, I wasn’t shocked at first. We’re in the public eye. We’ve had a hit show for eight years and counting. We’ve been on every morning show and a few late-night ones. We have a home decorating line at Target, bestselling coffee-table books, and one very popular memoir that earned out our high six-figure advance years ago.
