Page 13 of Good Days Bad Days
I don’t want to bring up all the abandonment issues I’ve struggled with, and I don’t want to fight. I only want to help free my dad of theburden of this house. Maybe then I’ll ask him why he let Mom keep him from me for so long.
“How about this?” I say. “We’ll start in here and I’ll get information about hiring a cleanup team. I’ll have a better idea of what’s required when we talk to the social worker tomorrow.” I talk to him like he’s one of my clients and there’s a whole TV crew here.
He picks at the cuticle on his left thumb. He has a cut; it’s brownish red with dried blood. His nail is yellowed, and his hands look nothing like the ones that pushed me on the tire swing in the backyard or held my hand as we walked the lakeshore path to his antique shop a block off Main Street.
“You always have good ideas, hon,” he says, avoiding eye contact.
By “always,” he must mean onSecond Chance Renovationsince he has no way of knowing how good or bad my decision-making skills are as an adult.
“All right, well then, should we get started?”
“Sure thing,” Dad says, leaping off the bed like I asked him to go for a swim off the dock on a hot summer night. He brings over a collection of grocery-style boxes and plastic bags as though they’ll be sufficient for the tons of clutter and garbage surrounding us. It’s a start.
He digs in on the other side of the room and I take the stack of books at the end of the bed, place them in the box, and then grab another.
My third trip to the bookshelf leads to another scattering of paperwork. I can identify some of the items: my birth certificate, my mom’s social security card, a ribbonlike name tag with her name printed on it in faded gold lettering, a driver’s license with my mom’s maiden name and an address in Janesville, Wisconsin. At the bottom of the pile is a picture of a dark-haired woman holding a small baby that I think is me. On the white border in my mother’s handwriting is a name—Laura.
“Dad,” I call out to him as he goes through a pile of ancient newspapers on the opposite side of the room. “Did Mom live in Janesville? I thought she grew up in Madison.”
“Oh, yeah. I think so.” His response is vague and distant.
“Should I keep it? The license?” I ask, his slow and incomplete replies filling me with anxiety.
“I think so. That’s where your mom keeps all the important things. We can ask her the next time we visit.”
The next time we visit.With my back turned to my father, I roll my eyes. I enjoyed my visit with my mother today, which is super weird to admit to myself, but I don’t know if I’ll be making that trip again. If we have to run every decision past Betty, I’ll be in Lake Geneva for an eternity.
“What about this picture? Mom called me Laura when we left. Is this her? And this award here, too. Has mom’s name on it. Is it also important?” I hold out the black-and-white photo and black-and-gold ribbon. He puts on the bifocals hanging from his shirt collar and takes them off almost immediately.
“Yes. That’s your mom’s roommate from college.” He steps back with a shrug. “I didn’t know her well.”
I inspect the picture again, but when I attempt to ask why she might remember Laura but not me, I realize he’s moved into another room. I gather the interesting belongings and put them in an empty box, already gaining more insight on my enigmatic parents from a quick dig into their hoard. I don’t know, maybe I’ll visit Betty again and bring the box. It’d be more effective than my father showing her the items, plus, it’s unlikely he’d even tell me if she remembered anything after looking at them.
My dad is a quiet man, a shy man, the kind of person who nowadays would’ve been prescribed medication for social anxiety, like my oldest, Olivia. Could that mean I get my outgoing personality from my mom? What do I get from my father, I wonder? What brought two such opposites into this strange, unhealthy symbiotic relationship that’s led to this overloaded house and parentless daughter? My father surely won’t tell me, and my mother can’t.
If it meant a clean house and a new start, I’d throw out every item in this place without a second thought. But if I must indulge my mother’s illness and my father’s infuriating codependence, then I suppose learning more about them is an unintended bonus. I take in the walls of belongings surrounding me, towering above my head, encompassing me like an embrace. Perhaps the only answers are within these walls, waiting for me to find them.
Chapter 6
Greg
June 10, 1969
WQRX Studios
Janesville, Wisconsin
“Ready?” Martha asks when she meets me in the hall outside of Hollinger’s office. She has a thick poster board under her left arm and a leather satchel over her right. Her hair is curled and sprayed in place, her cheeks flushed pink either from rouge or anxiety. She’s wearing a loose pencil skirt that goes below her knees and a slightly crumpled polyester shirt. To a style expert she might seem frumpy or out of touch with fashion, but to me she looks pretty. Her nervous smile only adds to her charm.
“I’m ready,” I say, holding up the portable projector and film canister. Martha wrote the script, and I was behind the camera. We both edited, and the finished product left us with a ten-minute sample of the locally focused variety showJanesville Presents ...It’s a working title, but the idea for the show is fun and timely. Variety shows are all the rage during prime time, and featuring local talent will keep our ratings up.
Watching Martha produce a show is impressive. She’s brilliant, sure of herself, and I’m lucky she asked me to partner with her. I’mstill puzzled why she chose me out of all the other talented people at WQRX, but I won’t ask.
“Oh, gosh darn it. I forgot my note cards in my office. Can I leave this with you?” She holds out the supplies and I take them. “Why don’t you go in so we’re not both late.”
She takes off running down the hall, her low heels making an echoing clip-clop on the freshly waxed linoleum. My hands and arms full, I face the office door. I’ve been avoiding this place, and the reason is more pathetic than being wary of the new station manager. Inside, sitting behind a desk outside Hollinger’s inner office, is his personal secretary. She takes calls, keeps track of mail and meetings, and happens to be the one woman I haven’t stopped thinking about since I met her. Betty.
The day after seeing her on the street, Mark showed up on set to tell me the news.
