Page 16 of Good Days Bad Days
“We’re finished,” I complete her sentence, and she nods.
“Getting fired wouldn’t be terrible. I have that offer at KSTP still out there. I could try to get them to sign you on, too. Ever consider moving to Minneapolis?” She laughs a little but doesn’t wait for a reply. “Then again, he basically greenlit the Janesville show. And he’s so invested in this antifeminist piece of garbage that we’d have more freedom. Ugh. It’s such a catch-22. What do you think?”
“Hmmm,” I say, pondering the situation.Catch-22, an eye-opening satirical novel I read in Comparative Literature at Beloit College, was one of the first cracks in my thoughts about the war. The concept fit too well in this modern world. The government says that to have peace, there must be war, but with war, there is no peace. In this situation, supporting the only woman on the production team to help her keep her job and retain hopes of upward mobility means also supporting backward “keep women in the kitchen” programming. And if I truly back Martha’s decisions that also means I have to be okay with losing my job if she rejects this offer. She’s right—it’s a catch-22.
Martha peeks at me through the crook of her arm, watching me nervously fuss with the papers, stacking and restacking them to give me a few more seconds to think. People usually get used to my silence, even take advantage of it. I find Martha’s interest in my internal thoughts exciting but also nerve racking. I like to think before I speak, think a lot, which can make it seem like I have nothing to say, but it’s often the opposite. When I do speak, it’s because I’m sure of what I’m saying.
“I trust you either way,” I say, handing over the file, our fingers brushing. She takes the stuffed manila folder with the handwritten “Happy Homemaker” label on the tab and lays it in her lap like a sleeping baby. We both stare at it.
“What the hell,” she nearly shouts, raising the file to her chest and holding it tightly. “Let’s give it a shot. I mean, how bad can it be?”
The phrase echoes ominously down the stairwell as she opens the proposal to the first page.
“Yeah,” I lean in to read over her shoulder, swallowing down an unexpected wave of unease. “How bad can it be?”
Chapter 7
Charlie
Present Day
“Thumbs tonight at eight. You promise?” Lacey, my childhood BFF, asks through the car’s speaker as I wind my way through a back street on my way to the memory center. Lacey and her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Perkowski, visited me once a month when I went into foster care. Her mom bought my prom dress, and her dad gave me flowers when I graduated from high school.
They moved to Florida a few months after Lacey married and have lived there ever since. We drifted apart over time, but Ian and I had dinner with the Perkowskis a few years ago while working on a house in Hollywood, Florida. Lacey and I catch up through occasional texts.
But today, I get to see her in person, along with friends from Badger High School who still live in the area. Thumbs Up is a popular local bar I’ve never been in because I was too young when I lived in town. But even back then, it was always a busy place. Not as busy as Sugar Shack, the co-ed strip club a few miles west of town, but that’s still a little outside my comfort zone even at forty-seven.
“Yes, yes. I promise. I could use a drink.”
“I’m sure. How are things going with the cleanup?”
“Slow. Insanely slow. It took a harsh inspection and threats from the city to get Dad to let any of the junk places give us a quote. Then he thought the quote was too expensive, didn’t want to let me help pay, and then insisted we could do it ourselves, which—we can’t. But he’s on the verge of losing guardianship of my mom, so he’s starting to listen to some options.”
I park my car in a spot right in front of the center that I’ve claimed as my own. I’ve been here three times in the past seven days. Dad came with me the first time I returned. He and Betty held hands like teenagers dating. Mom hasn’t recognized me even once, which I’m not complaining about, though Nurse Mitchell looks brokenhearted for me every time Betty calls me Laura. I’m too ashamed to admit that I prefer it.
“No. You certainly can’t do it yourself. Finn had to go in there a year or two ago because of a burst pipe. He said it was ... intense.” Lacey’s husband, Finn, is a plumber. She’s already told me this embarrassing story twice, so I shift away from it before she can get to the part where my mom chased him out of the house, accusing him of theft.
“Well, I’ve got a crew coming next week whether my dad likes it or not.” I grab a cardboard box of my mom’s belongings from the car’s front seat, balancing the phone as I head into the memory center. “We’ve made plenty of progress in the bedroom, but even after a week’s worth of work, it’s barely a dent. Oh, shit.”
I curse as I fish my foot out of an icy puddle. I still haven’t gotten decent boots, but I hope an early spring thaw is around the corner. The freezing gray water soaks into my socks immediately.
“You good?” Lacey asks.
“Yeah. Just trying to balance too many things.” I shake my booted foot to drain as much water as possible. “I better get inside. I’ll see you tonight, though. OK?”
“Yeah, for sure. Get inside. It’s cold as balls out there. And don’t you dare try to cancel again. I need this.”
“Believe me. I need it too,” I say, rearranging the box to grab the phone off my shoulder.
“All right. And if you don’t show up, we’re gonna hunt you down.”
“I know. I know. I’ll be there. I promise.”
“Yay! See you tonight. Bye!”
“Bye.”
We end our call as I step onto the plastic mat in the foyer of Shore Path Memory Center. The faux fire is lit in the fireplace, and the room smells of pine and bleach. No one is behind the counter, so I sit in one of the armchairs facing the red-and-orange LED flames and remove a layer of outerwear.
