Page 32 of Good Days Bad Days
And as Mark and I escort Martha to her room, keeping her upright as she trips up the wide-set stairs, my arm around her waist for the second time this night, she stares up at me while Mark works her lock.
“We have to give them what they want, don’t we?”
“Yeah, I think we do,” I say, hoping she remembers at least some of what she’s saying in the morning because Martha has to bury her resentment toward Betty if we’re going to find a way to move forward.
“Damn it,” she says, her green eyes glistening from a gathering of tears. A drop escapes and slides down her cheek. I catch it with my fingertips and brush it away, wishing I could do the same for all of the problems with our show—her show.
“Got it,” Mark says as the door pops open.
I attempt to help Martha over the threshold, but she pats my chest, slips her feet out of her dressy shoes, and picks them up. Stepping into her room, she retrieves her key from Mark, thanks us both, and promptly slams the door in our faces.
“Well, that wasn’t exactly how I thought the night would go,” Mark says, blinking rapidly, staring at the closed door.
“Me either,” I say, unsure if any good came from sharing a table with those men tonight.
As we get to the end of the hallway, Mark hesitates, checking his watch. “Wanna go to a strip club? I know some of the girls in town. They’d go bananas over you.”
“Nah, I’m gonna crash,” I say, following the number signs in the direction of our room. “Don’t drive, though. They have a disco downstairs.”
“Yeah, full of couples and old men and Bunnies who can’t even say whether they’re married or not. No thank you.” Mark trails me to our room. I let myself in and he reminds me of his earlier warning. “And if I come home with someone tonight, you’re sleeping in the bathtub.”
“I’m gonna be asleep, so good luck making me.” I chuckle at the idea of Mark trying to carry all six feet five inches of me to the bathroom as he stumbles off down the hall, so clearly drunk that I’m sure the valet will refuse to get his car.
Inside, the smell of aftershave still lingers in the air. I slip out of my suit, hanging each piece carefully so it’ll be presentable for our meetings tomorrow.
In bed at long last, my mind returns to Betty. Could that woman have been her? Does our wholesome homemaker have a secret life? If it’s her, do I keep my mouth shut? It’s not like the side job gets in the way of her work at the station. But then again—what happens when the housewives and young mothers and matronly grandmothers find out their respected figure of wholesome womanhood is a Playboy Bunny? What happens when Martha finds out, or Hollinger or Quinton Florence?
Nothing good, that’s for sure.
Chapter 13
Charlie
Present Day
“Charlie! So good to see you,” Nurse Mitchell in her pink scrubs greets me from a desk down the hall. “Just in time for dessert.”
I wave back but don’t linger for a chat, and she doesn’t try to stop me. I basically just got off the phone with her. I dialed the memory center when I pulled onto Main Street, hoping to assess my mom’s mental state before seeing her.
“She’s a little lost today,” the nurse said over the phone, with a note of compassion. “But she’s in a good mood overall. Made bracelets for half the memory care unit at arts and crafts. I know she’d like to see you.”
I tried not to snort at the idea of my mom wanting to see me. Either she remembers me and hates me, or she’s forgotten me and loves me. Kind of a messed-up dynamic, that’s for sure. I thanked Nurse Mitchell and told her I’d be there soon.
The memory care halls are decorated with pastel eggs for Easter, and none of the employees try to stop me now that I’m a fairly common face around Shore Path. I haven’t been asked for a selfie or an autograph in two weeks, which usually means the novelty of having a television personality walk around their place of work has worn off.
I take a right and a left and then another right, and when I’m only a few doors away from Betty’s room, the sound ofAbbey Roadtrickles down the hall, and the tension in my shoulders releases. She won’t remember me today. Today, I’ll listen to records and have dessert with Betty instead of my mom.
I knock on the door. It’s ajar, so I push it open slowly. I didn’t bring the whole box of items from the house today, only the headshot and a few pictures. Also, I brought a new pack of cards from Dollar General as a peace offering.
Inside, Betty stands in the center of the room, shuffling her feet in a circular motion with her eyes closed. She holds a long, translucent scarf that flutters around her like it’s dancing, too. Her hair is styled into a chic white-platinum poof that frames her face, and her eyeliner is smudged up the side of her right eye. Her cobalt-blue eyeshadow, the same color she used to buy from the makeup counter at Waals Department Store in Walworth, is slathered on her eyelids all the way up to her eyebrows. She wears a soft pink dress with a sash around her middle and slippers on her feet.
“Oh, you’re finally here!” she says, opening her eyes when I walk past her to place the items I brought onto her puzzle table. Betty is glad I’m here, even if she doesn’t remember I’m her daughter—or more likelybecauseshe doesn’t remember.
“Sorry I’ve been gone a bit. Work got busy,” I say, turning the headshot face down so I can share it when the timing seems right.
“Oh, my goodness, yes.” She drops the scarf and it falls into a lifeless pool on the ground. “I have to get to work. I forgot.” She looks down at her dress and then presses her face close to the mirror mounted on the wall above the sink. “I can’t go like this. My boss will kill me.”
She reaches for a bar of amber-colored Neutrogena soap and a damp washcloth. Her panic reminds me of my stress dreams about being back in school and suddenly realizing I have a test but haven’t studied.
