Page 67 of Good Days Bad Days
She leans over, inspecting the ground, and nearly loses her balance.
“Hey, no. It’s not lost. Come here.” I guide her back into a seated position and show her the band on her finger.
“The diamond is gone. My husband will be so mad.”
“No, no, he won’t. I’m sure Greg has it.” I remember to use my dad’s name this time.
Betty’s eyelids flutter and she stares at me, puzzled.
“Greg? Who is he?”
She doesn’t remember Dad. I’ve seen her forget him face to face. When it happens, my father doesn’t even flinch. He’ll remind Betty that he’s her husband—sometimes she accepts the fact and other times she doesn’t, and they let it go. I use the same strategy.
“Your husband. Greg. He’s probably keeping it safe for you. But look, you still have this one ...” I return the picture to my pocket and point to the dented gold band encircling her ring finger. It’s the only one I’ve ever seen her wear. It looks nothing like the one in her wedding photograph or the one she wore onThe Classy Homemaker, but it’s the one she’ll likely wear until the day she dies.
“That’s not my ring,” she says, tugging at the metal circle, but it becomes stuck on her swollen knuckle. “Who stole my ring?”
Her voice pitches up to a decibel that strains my eardrums as she claws at the ring on her hand like it’s eating through her finger, her nails leaving long scratches on her paper-thin skin.
“Stop!” I say, throwing my hand over hers, taking the brunt of her self-attack.
“Who stole it? Who?” she wails, and I grasp her wrists, holding them up.
“Help!” I shout, but no one comes. The garden is empty and all the doors and windows closed.
“Betty. Betty.” I chant her name as she attacks both herself and my protective restraint. “Betty!” I yell forcefully, and she zeros in on my steady stare, sniffling. “We should go look in your room. Perhaps it fell off there.” Betty starts to argue, not noticing the blood pooling in the divots of her bony hands, insisting a theft had taken place, so I rush to add, “If not, we can call the police.”
Her muscles relax, and though my heart is still racing, she returns to a less frantic state.
“Yes. We should call the police,” she says steadily. “Tell them Mrs. Thompson took it. She takes everything,” she says, blood dripping off her nails and into the gravel at her feet. I take off my sweatshirt and wrap it around her hand. Drops of red trail behind us as I urge her toward the garden exit.
As soon as I’m through the side door, I flag down a nursing assistant. By the time we get back to Betty’s room, a member of the nursing staff is there with disinfectant and bandages, listening to the retelling of the incident, which I explain from an emotionally distant place so I don’t break down. Betty’s energy is low and she gets her wish—to have her ring removed.
“You’ll visit me tomorrow? We’ll go to Ike’s?” she asks with eager eyes as I back out of the room, my stained sweatshirt tied around my waist, her blood under my fingernails, my hands shaking.
“Soon,” I say, my throat tightening. I clasp my hands behind my back to still them. No one speaks to me on the way out, which is the only way I keep myself from losing it in front of the whole staff.
With my head resting against the steering wheel, I let it out, everything I’ve felt since walking into this parking lot, every sob I’ve stopped, every tear I’ve willed back inside. I think of Nurse Mitchell’s kind words, calling me a caregiver, a good daughter, and feel like a fraud. What am I doing? Why am I trying to pry information out of my sick mother instead of facing my emotionally removed father with the same energy?
I slap at the steering wheel and start the car, knowing exactly where I’m going next.
Sure, there are times when my mother is painfully angry with me, opening old wounds. Some fester, but some are healing. There’s someone else I need to talk to. Someone who is in his right mind. Someone who has the answers.
My father.
Chapter 26
Greg
May 8, 1971
Midwest Broadcasters Association Awards
The Venetian Club
Rockford, Illinois
“Damn, she really knows how to clean up,” Mark says, staring at someone over my shoulder. He’s already two drinks in, and we’ve located WQRX’s banquet table. I rented a tux. Mark already had one but had to have the pants let out, claiming his dry cleaner shrunk them.
