Page 65 of Good Days Bad Days
Charlie
Present Day
When my alarm goes off at six this morning, I’m a woman on a mission. Despite having gone to bed late, I spring up, grab my phone, and scan my backlog of emails. There are plenty waiting for me: messages from my producer, Alex McNamara, the house inspector, and a friendly note from Dino confirming the next steps for the cleanup.
I move on to texts. There are no good-night messages from Ian, which sends a pang of regret through me, remembering the twisted, pained look on his face from last night as he and Olivia left me on the freezing lawn with Cam. On the other hand, I have three texts from Cam. I’d texted him with news of my ring discovery last night. His response this morning is an offer to go down to the Rock County clerk’s office in Janesville at lunchtime to check out the marriage records. I reply with my decision to visit my mom and ask her about the ring, no matter what kind of day she is having.
Before leaving the house, I quietly get dressed, deciding to let Olivia sleep in. Within an hour, I’m waiting outside Shore Path for visiting hours with the picture in my pocket.
When the lobby doors open, I’m asked to wait in the common area while my mom finishes her occupational therapy session. I stare at the photograph, determining at least two explanations for every detail.
“What a beautiful picture,” Nurse Mitchell says from behind me, making me jump.
“Yeah, Betty sure had a sense of style.” I lay the image in my lap, not knowing enough about its origin to make small talk.
“Still does. I’d take fashion advice from her,” Nurse Mitchell says jokingly. When I don’t banter back, she grows more serious. “She asks to see you every day, you know.”
“Me or Laura?” I ask in a way that comes off as bitter. Mitchell sits beside me on the floral love seat.
“Her ‘friend,’ which I’m assuming is you. Usually, it’s when she’s hungry.”
“Probably because of the soup from our last visit.” I chuckle a little, even though I know Betty’s obsession with Ike’s might also be to blame.
“Probably,” she echoes, laughing softly before clearing her throat. “Listen, your dad told me a bit about what happened, uh, before, when you were a kid. And I know it’s none of my business, but”—she pauses like she’s measuring her words—“I think it’s pretty impressive that you’re here at all.”
“Oh?” I say, taken aback, and search for an easy, appropriate reply. “I mean, I’m here for my dad. He never lets anyone help him, and now he’s been forced into it.”
“Yeah, I can see that. He’s a kind man—codependent as anyone I’ve ever met, but a kind man.”
“My God, he is tragically codependent, isn’t he?” I laugh loudly at the nurse’s spot-on analysis. My father, the grand enabler. It was definitely the topic of more than one session back in my postdivorce therapy days. Nurse Mitchell grows quiet as the OT room door opens, signaling the end of Betty’s session.
“It’s sweet that you’re here for your dad and even for your mom, but I hope you’re also here for yourself.” She unfolds her arms and gives mea sincere smile. “This is hard stuff, Charlie, even without the baggage you’re carrying. A common mistake caregivers make is not taking care of themselves.”
I feel exposed by her statement. I’m not some selfless family member here out of the kindness of my heart, swooping in to save the day. I came seeking closure and to escape my real life, hoping to gather information about my childhood and the parents who let me go so long ago. I can’t convince my dad to move out of his dangerous home, and the photograph in my lap reminds me that I can’t seem to leave my mom and her secrets behind.
Before I can respond to Nurse Mitchell’s far too generous assessment of my visits, my mom calls “Laura” from across the hall. Thank goodness. Today she is Betty.
I may not be in Wisconsin for entirely altruistic reasons, but the warmth in Betty’s voice when she greets me on these days makes me think that the benefit isn’t entirely one sided. My dad will have a safe house to live in, Betty has a friend to have soup with, and both of them have a granddaughter they, so far, are treating with appropriate care and attention. Maybe it’s OK that I want to ask a few questions here and there, maybe it’s OK if I prefer the days when my mom doesn’t know me to the ones where she does.
With a knowing smile, Nurse Mitchell stands and suggests we take a walk in the garden. Betty loves the idea and slips her arm through mine as we return to her room for a jacket. She’s smiling today, and the weight of her thin, frail arm threaded through mine makes me feel protective.
“This is nice,” Betty says as we walk along the gravel path around the facility’s garden. I inhale deeply, my lungs stretching out against my rib cage, the scent of wet dirt thick in the air.
“It finally feels like spring,” I say, exhaling, the overnight change in the weather turning my breath invisible again.
The weather is warmer today, and I remember how exciting these glimpses of outdoor freedom were as a child. It meant summerwas coming soon, where my world went from the tiny corner in my bedroom that’d been left untouched by my mother’s belongings, to miles of houses, beaches, new friends, and plenty of ice cream. I think that’s why I love living in California now; I don’t have to stay locked inside for half the year.
“Look. Tulips.” Betty points at the cheerful green sprouts peeking out from the rich brown soil. “I hope they’re pink.”
“We’ll have to check again in a few days,” I say. She won’t remember this walk or these buds in a few hours, much less in a few days, but it’s not an empty promise. If I’m still here, I’ll take her to the garden to see if the tulips have blossomed.
See,I tell myself,not totally selfish.
We always had tulips in April, even after Mom stopped tending the flower beds. The bulbs kept coming up every spring, nature’s timekeeper, “a little gift for surviving the winter,” my dad used to say. I still claim tulips as my favorite flower even though I don’t think I realized why until now.
Betty closes her eyes, trusting me fully to keep her safe.
“I’m a flower,” she says, turning her face to the sun as we walk, and I let myself really look at the woman who I’d forced myself not to love anymore. She’s wearing her coral lipstick and costume diamonds in her drooping pierced lobes, and there’s an unmistakable glow to her cheeks. Something long dormant stirs inside of me, like those little green sprouts reaching for the sunlight after a deep winter freeze. It’s a link stored inside my mind or DNA from when she carried me and cared for me. I have an urge I haven’t felt in a while—to call her “Mom.”
