Page 38 of Good Days Bad Days
I expect Betty to recoil from his touch, look at me with panic and embarrassment, signaling me to save her from the lascivious boss man taking advantage of her, but she doesn’t. Instead, she leans in, giggling, putting her arm on his shoulder, placing a light kiss on his cheek, which he rubs at like he’s trying to remove a lipstick stain.
“Sorry, sweetie. I needed to prep for tomorrow’s crafting segment, and it takes twelve hours for the flowers to dry properly ...”
“Blah, blah, blah. You know that stuff goes right over my head. But seriously, you should use production assistants for that kind of thing. Right, Tin Man?”
I feel more like a rusted-out character than ever. My jaw is locked shut and my limbs are frozen as I begin to understand what I’m witnessing.
Don Hollinger is dating Betty Wilkens. It’s a common enough thing, a man dating his secretary or at least his former secretary. And it’s not uncommon for a man of power to give preferential treatment to the woman he’s seducing, something special like giving her a show. I never expected it to happen with Don but especially not Betty.
“Uh-huh,” I manage to grunt. Hollinger smacks me on the back as he and Betty walk away. He embraces her waist, his thumb tracing a sultry line on her bare skin. I shudder, bile rising in my throat as I recall her soft hands caressing mine as she scrubbed them, and Iwonder how delicate her back, her sides, and her belly must feel under Hollinger’s touch.
“You got the lights?” Hollinger asks over his shoulder. I clear my throat and steady my reply.
“Yup,” I shout back, thepbouncing off the cinderblock walls in an eerie echo that sounds like I’m chasing them down the hall.
“Bye, Greg,” Betty calls out, and I watch as she walks off with a man she’s keeping secrets from and leaves behind the man she’s asked to hold them.
Chapter 15
Charlie
Present Day
“And she wrote a book,” I tell Olivia through the phone’s screen, holding up the blue-and-white hardcover.The Classy Homemakeris in playful lettering across the front, with drawings of a perfect-looking housewife in a tidy skirt and low heels doing various chores by each line of the title. “Tina, Dino’s wife, she found it in a pile of books and, God bless her, remembered that I’d asked her to set aside items with Betty’s name on them.”
It was basically a miracle she saved anything coming out of the house at this point. The upstairs is nearly cleared, and after a weekend off, the crew will start on the main floor, pending an inspection from the city.
“My God, that’s wild,” Olivia says, squinting at the cover. It’s good to see her face and listen to her voice at the same time. It’s been a month since I got here, and though I’ve seen the boys on FaceTime, with Ian looming in the background, I’ve had inconsistent communication with Olivia since our disagreement.
To keep the questions about my relationship with Ian at bay, I’ve been sharing little tidbits about my mother and the enigma of her past.Only a picture or detail here or there until tonight. We’ve been on the phone for two hours already, catching up.
“I know, right?”
“I can’t believe she had her own show, too. Does that mean I have to take up the family business? I’m not really up for being any kind of on-screen guru.”
“You don’t choose the guru life, Livy, it chooses you,” I say, taking a sip out of my wineglass, more settled than I have been in weeks, maybe even years. “From what I can tell, it was this Holly Homemaker kind of a show. Like, how to be a perfect housewife kind of a thing. And the book looks like it’s about that same old misogynistic stuff like ‘Do your hair before your husband comes home’ and ‘Never, ever show any emotion other than joy at cleaning toilets and changing diapers,’ and that’s just the first two chapters.”
“Written by your mom—who is a hoarder. That’s crazy,” Olivia says and then immediately covers her mouth. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to call her crazy. I know it’s more nuanced than that ...”
I swallow the last bite of my dinner and smile into the phone so she knows I’m not upset. Olivia’s had her own struggles with anxiety that she manages with medication and therapy, so I know she meant no harm. I’m far more worried about how she’s handling all of this on top of her first year of college.
“It’s OK, honey,” I say and then check the clock on the microwave. It’s nearly 10:00 p.m. As much as I’ve enjoyed our conversation, I know I’ve kept her too long. It’s the night before spring break and she told me two hours ago about an impending deadline. “I should probably let you go, though. You said you had your project due tonight, right?”
“I almost forgot. It has to be in by midnight. Shit. Sorry. Shoot,” Olivia says, checking her watch and then slapping her bedspread.
“You’re fine!” I chuckle at her attempts to hide her cursing, though it doesn’t really bother me at all.
“Oh, God. I feel like an idiot. I’m gonna go.”
I reach for the phone, ready to sign off, when Olivia stops me. “Wait, Mom.”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for sharing all that stuff with me. It’s super interesting. You never really talk about your past or anything. It’s always felt, like, off limits or something.”
Her comment strikes me in a strange way, like it smacked my funny bone. Olivia wants to know about my history as urgently as I’d like to know about my mother’s. I’ve vowed to be nothing like my mother, yet I continue to discover more ways we are alike.
“You’re ... you’re welcome,” I say, taking a deep, wine-flavored breath in before adding, “I can keep you updated.”
