Page 79 of Good Days Bad Days
“We gotta do something to keep from remembering what we’ve seen,” one twenty-year-old from Dubuque told O’Neil when asked on camera about the drug use. “I didn’t fucking ask to be here.”
The cursing and unsavory details would prevent that clip from being broadcast, but we didn’t shy away from the truth. I really respected that about O’Neil. He had integrity. He wanted to show things the way they were. And for the first three months, I went where he told me and shot what he wanted. We made a good team. But then he was hit inthe leg in a combat zone and sent home for limb-saving surgery. I was placed with an older reporter, Dick Zan. Dick prefers to stay in Saigon for the military briefings, nicknamed the Five O’Clock Follies. He only goes into the field for a day or two to get some fluff for a feel-good segment every few weeks.
I’ve had the chance to leave twice already and chosen to stay.
Zan is going home for the summer, and the network offered to fly me back at the same time, but I’ve decided to stay a little longer. The work is hard but rewarding. I’m finally living a life rather than letting it happen all around me. What’s waiting for me back home, anyway? I feel closer to my brother here where he took his last breath than I ever did behind a camera on a soundstage in Janesville, Wisconsin. Betty is more my girl here through her letters than she’d be as Don Hollinger’s wife back home. I could go back to KSTP and tag along on Martha’s rapidly ascending coattails, but even that connection has waned. I have four letters in total from Martha, who has moved on not only careerwise but also romantically, her last letter announcing her engagement to a nice banker she met at a disco on ladies’ night.
A pang of jealousy rushed through me reading that letter, I’ll admit it, but it’s not the same as the torturous spasms brought on by Mark’s mentions of Betty. I care about Martha, like her profoundly, but the surge of emotion I felt came from a place of envy at the forward motion of her life rather than a desire to be with her.
Vietnam is my self-appointed purgatory. I stay here as an act of penance, to redeem the shame I feel for being the only survivor in my family, for somehow escaping the draft, for not going back to stay with my mom after Jim died, for not taking her call that night she chose to join him instead of staying alive for me.
And here in Vietnam I have Betty. I have her picture, the one from her wedding to Don, taped up on my headboard, and I have her letters in my hands that end with the words “Love always.”
“Damn, she’s a real looker,” Leon, the CBS cameraman says, dropping onto his bed next to mine. I look up from the powder-scentedletter I just slid out of one of Betty’s signature pink envelopes. “That’s your girl?”
I consider telling the truth or saying something vague or un-incriminating. But I don’t. I tell everyone here the same thing. It’s my favorite lie.
“Yeah,” I say, smiling. “That’s my wife. Betty.”
Chapter 31
Charlie
Present Day
“Men. Always causing trouble,” Betty says over the phone after I tell her I’m still dealing with a broken heart. It’s our second conversation today. I had a call from Nurse Mitchell yesterday morning saying that Betty had been asking for me incessantly—well, asking for Laura—and she wondered if I’d be up for a phone call. Feeling desperately alone, I took her up on the request.
I can’t tell Betty about the texts I found on Ian’s phone and our altercation on the stairs of the Grand Geneva, where he tried to talk me into staying. But I’d seen enough, and it felt almost worse than if I’d uncovered some long-standing salacious affair. My husband was secretly working with Alex McNamara to get my parents’ house rehab on HFN. Ian didn’t come here simply as part of Olivia’sParent Trapplans; he came here to further his career—to exploit my family’s trauma to enhance his fame and increase his bank account.
“Screw you,” I shouted in his face on the landing of the main staircase overlooking the busy lobby. Everyone’s heads snapped toward us like we were performing on an elevated stage. Phones popped up inthe crowd, and whispers passed through the mass, likely identifying the noteworthy couple having a very public spat.
At that, Ian let me go. After I explained the need for privacy, the manager let me hide in the front office until a car could be arranged to take me home. Once he realized why I was so angry, Ian began sending me a barrage of texts. His messages quickly turned into calls, but I haven’t answered a single one. Over the past three days, I’ve avoided most human contact, except for Betty. I’ve never had a mother to turn to during a breakup, and though this version of Betty is more like a friend than a mom, it’s a novel sensation.
“I thought I could trust him. I really did,” I say into the receiver, repeating myself, but Betty doesn’t notice, as if she’s experiencing the conversation for the first time.
“Yes. They’ll let you down, now, won’t they?” Most of Betty’s responses are general and airy. This time, I’m not digging for hints at her past. This conversation is just two women on the phone, simply enjoying the comfort of each other’s voices. What a strange twist—my mother’s voice is comforting to me.
But where else could I turn? My business colleagues are all far too busy or too willing to side with HFN and Ian. Lacey would help me hide a body, for sure, but she’s a bit of a gossip and was far too eager to pass Cam my number when I told her about my separation during my first week here.
And Cam. I’ve muted his texts, which mostly relay what he’s found at the library or the city clerk’s office, but he’s also sent a few asking if he’s done something wrong. I had to force myself not to answer. As much as I want to confide in him like I did after reconnecting at Thumbs, it wouldn’t be fair to vomit my marital issues onto a man I know has growing feelings for me. Somehow, I know that if I lean on him now, when things are such a mess, Ian would see it as the ultimate betrayal.
And then there’s Olivia, working her butt off to fulfill some kind of magical movie moment with me and Ian. The night of our fight shecame home sometime around midnight and peeked into my room as I pretended to sleep. She was gone by the time I got up in the morning, sending a little text telling me she was going to meet Ian for breakfast and inviting me to join. I didn’t respond, burying myself in my covers, listening to self-help books on “finding my true self” and “learning to be alone.” I haven’t seen her since, though she still updates me on her plans. Today, she’s headed to the library. When she returns, I need to figure out how to tell her my side of what’s going on with Ian. She’s flying back to California in the morning. I can’t believe how much of our time together I’ve wasted.
“Will you come visit me today?” Betty asks in her shaky voice, pulling my mind back to our conversation. “We could go to Ike’s.” She brings up the diner for the tenth time during our call. I wish I’d never mentioned the place, a detail from her past that she fiercely hangs on to.
I’ve stayed away from Shore Path, honoring my dad’s request. I need to warn him about Ian’s plans for the house, but he hasn’t answered his home or cell phone, so I’ll have to put on a stoic face and go to the house in person today. My lawyers, agent, and manager all agree—the only hope for stopping this is my dad. I don’t trust Ian alone with my dad and the house. After those two-faced texts with Alex, I don’t trust Ian at all—period.
“I’m very busy today, but maybe tomorrow,” I tell Betty, unsure when I’ll be able to see her again and if she’ll even be happy to see me by then.
“Oh, that’s too bad. I have a new dress for my date. I’d like to look for some shoes and make a day of it.”
I smile, thinking of the time I did her makeup as we listened to the Beatles and talked about her days in front of the camera forThe Classy Homemaker. Though they aren’t the childhood memories most people cherish of their mother, I’m filling in a few blanks in my emotional canvas.
“That sounds like a lot of fun. What kind of shoes are you looking for?” I ask, letting the conversation drift away from the heavier topics of love and betrayal.
“I don’t know.” She pauses, makingmmmsounds as she thinks. “Black ones with a buckle?”
“That sounds very pretty,” I say, knowing Betty loves pretty things.
