Page 5 of Good Days Bad Days
I’m a gangly six foot five, and though I’ve always hated that my height makes it impossible to blend in with a crowd, it does have its strong points. Without much effort, I reach my long arm to the little compartment behind the counter and snag the cluster of keys. They make a quiet tinkling sound as I place them on the woman’s soft-looking palm.
“You’re my hero. Thank you so much,” she says, touching my sleeve ever so lightly, my head spinning at the simple motion.
“You’re welcome.” I overcome my tongue-tied nature temporarily.
“Well, thank you again. Have a good day.”
“You too,” I say with a nod, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
I can hear Lucy and Leo talking in the back now, and the breeze pushes the faint scent of cigarette smoke through the swinging door. As Lucy returns from the kitchen, apologizing for making me wait, the woman in red pauses at the threshold like she’s overlooked something else.
“Hey there, hero guy,” she calls to get my attention, which hasn’t actually left her. Lucy raises her eyebrows at me as though she knows she missed something important. “I forgot to ask—what’s your name?”
“Greg,” I say back, adding, “Laramie.”
“Well, nice to meet you, Greg Laramie.”
“Nice to meet you, too ...” I leave a space for her name, too nervous to ask outright. She doesn’t make me. A broad, enchanting smile spreads across her face.
“I’m Betty,” she says.
It’s the prettiest name I’ve ever heard. I know my cheeks must give away the effect she has on me.
“Nice to meet you, Betty.”
“You too, Greg.”
At that, she flits out of my day like a rare bird escaping its cage for the unwelcoming chill of the Midwest, and I’m left flushed and distracted, propped against the counter by one arm, wondering how any single human creature could move me so completely.
“Well, look at you, Greg Laramie. I’m impressed.” Lucy smirks at me, elbows on the counter.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, passing her my payment, finally. I’ll be late getting back to work.
“Sure you don’t.” The change plinks cheerfully as she drops the coins into the cash register. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Greg. Break out of that shell a little and you’d be surprised what’d happen for you.” She shoves the cash tray back in and sighs. “Guess that’s why you’re behind the camera and not in front of it, huh? Well, makes sense, but you’d make some girl really happy, Greg. I’m sure of it.”
I shrug and push my hands into my pants pockets. She wishes me a good day, and I walk outside into a revitalizing spring breeze that whips through my thin cotton shirt and tickles my scalp as it tangles in my hair.
As the door clinks shut behind me, a fancy red Corvette speeds down East Milwaukee in the opposite direction in a flash of color and exhaust. A slender white hand waves at me as the car revs past. I rush to return the gesture but can’t get my hand out of my pocket until she’s too far away to see my response.
By the time I run up the back stairwell to Studio C, I’m almost myself again, other than a smile that won’t go away. And though no one can see it, it’s there, behind the camera every time I think of the beautiful stranger who left me with only one of her names.
Chapter 3
Charlie
Present Day
“Good morning, Betty. Look who I have here for you. Visitors!” The nurse’s tone is cheerful and bright, reminding me of how the elementary school teachers speak in my kids’ classrooms. I clasp my hands together to keep them from shaking.
We duck around the half-closed privacy curtain and step into a sunny room with a hospital bed in the back corner, covered in a stitched blanket tucked neatly around each edge. There are two small side tables with pictures of my mom and dad, their house, and a picture of me when I was young. There’s another table on rollers covered in a nearly finished puzzle. The Game Show Network plays on the TV with the volume turned all the way down. In the corner is an overstuffed green armchair that looks like it came from my father’s shop. It is definitely antique and well preserved.
That’s where she sits—my mom.
She’s holding a cup of coffee, dressed in a loose pair of tan slacks and an untucked green blouse. Her hair is a light gray, nearly white, thinning at the top and sides. She looks as though she’s had a trip to the hairdresser recently. Her cheeks are overly rouged and her lipsticka touch askew, but she seems ready for guests. Her skin is pale and so thin I can see the veins running up her arms and neck where exposed. Like my father, she is very slender and looks so frail that a single slip on the ice might snap her in half. She’s like a dried-out rose that’s still beautiful but could crumble to dust with one touch.
“Well, hello,” she says warmly to all three of us, looking confused but bright eyed. She sets down her mug and gazes at us expectantly as if she’s waiting for an introduction. I anticipate a flicker of recognition from her, but none comes. A wave of relief washes over me.
“Betty, Greg and Charlotte are here to visit you today.” Dad and I hang our coats and stand a few feet away waiting to assess her mood.
