Page 80 of Good Days Bad Days
“And a dress for the baby. Pink to match my skirt.”
The baby?I sit up straight.Me?She’s talking about me as though I’m still an infant.
“Your baby?”
“Yes, of course, my baby. She’s very little and pretty. I think she’s sleeping right now.” Her anxiety seems to be slightly triggered at the realization that her baby isn’t by her side.
“I’m sure she is. She’s sound asleep in her crib.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, she is. She needs a bottle when she wakes up. I’ll go find one ...” And the phone line cuts off as Betty leaves on an impossible errand from her past. I put the phone on the counter and whisper “Goodbye, Mom” before taking three long breaths and two short ones like one of the therapy podcasts suggests. Looking down at the frumpy, stained shirt I’ve been living in for the last two days, I sigh.
Well, I can’t go anywhere looking like this.
Showered, shaved, brushed, and makeuped, with some carbs and coffee in my stomach, I make the walk over to Lake Shore Drive. Olivia still hasn’t returned with the car. The weather is unpredictable, as warm as summer some days and flurries littering the air on others, but this morning is cool and sunny. The rebirth of all things green and colorful makes the walk a rejuvenating one.
I will not cry today. I will not cry today,I chant internally with each footfall, then switch toYou are a badass bitch. Don’t let anyone walk all over you.First, I check Time and Again for my dad but only find Natty, his shop manager, who says she’s been flying solo all week.
At the last minute, I decide to take the shore path to the back of the house instead of the longer route around Lake Shore Drive. The unpaved parts of the path are muddy, and I arrive at the side yard with ruined shoes but in half the time it would’ve taken to go around.
Blue tarps are pinned down throughout the yard like a plastic patchwork quilt, with tall open-air tents perched over each one. Some tents are already filled with boxes and piles of clothes, shoes, books, and papers. The sorting process is starting to feel so futile, and there are times I wish we could trash it all. But Dino continues to remind me that the entire procedure is essential for a positive outcome, and so does the social worker assigned to my parents’ case. So we keep putting all of my parents’ belongings—their treasures and their shame—on their front and back lawn to be gawked at. At least the boat tours aren’t up and running yet. Hopefully, we can get a privacy screen installed before the summer season hits.
As I step onto my parents’ property, I see Dino on the back deck, calling out orders to the crew below. I approach genially, but as I climb the slope of the backyard, the rest of the deck comes into view. I see a camera operator, camera loaded on his shoulder, boom mic hovering in the background. Among the crowd I notice two more cameras directed toward him.
Jordan Kelp, the producer ofSqueaky Clean, stands to the side, holding a clipboard and wearing a World Window baseball cap pulled down to his eyebrows in what I’ve always believed is an effort to hide his bald head. A terrible realization hits me when I see who is standing on the other side of Dino. It’s my father.
“What the hell?” I growl, blind rage flaming inside, burning away my mantras and making me run the rest of the way, waving my arms.
“Cut! Cut! Turn that off.” I say, pointing to the camera operators, who I recognize now as Mike and Wendy, crew members fromSecond Chance Renovation. In fact, everyone is here from our show. I also notice the host ofSqueaky Cleancomforting my father.
I sprint up the back steps, causing one of the more delicate slats to splinter. Out of breath, I lunge in front of Dino to block the shot.
“You turn those cameras off. I told Alex and Karen we arenotsigning off on this.” I point a shaking finger at Jordan, my breathing unsteady with rage. He looks annoyed but not totally surprised at my outburst.
“Alex bypassed you on this one. Hadley will host it if you won’t play ball. We can still patch you in, but we had to get started,” Jordan responds coolly, like he’s trying to manage me.
Dino jumps in. “We’re not trying to take this over, Charlie. It’s a special project and you should be in charge, but we’ve been sitting around for a day already, so we had to get something going.”
“I’m not blaming you, Dino, but I don’t care what Alex said—this isn’t right. I didn’t sign off on this. My parents didn’t sign off on this.”
The crowd below has started to disperse, murmuring among themselves. A single camera continues filming as Dino, Tina, and I form a tight circle. I call for my dad to join us, and Mike tries to follow with his camera.
“Don’t you dare. Now turn that thing off.” I cover the lens with my hand.
“Charlie, you can’t touch the cameras. Mike, keep rolling,” Jordan directs the camera operator, who gives me an apologetic look.
My fight isn’t with the cast and crew—it’s with Karen at World Window, and HFN’s legal department, Alex McNamara and my own freaking husband. I reluctantly remove my hand.
“Fine, but this isn’t consent.”
“Noted,” Jordan says, clearly irritated.
My dad joins the circle, looking stunned and ashen.
“Is everything all right?” he asks like he has no idea why I’m losing my shit.
“No, it’s not all right. Are you OK with this?” I gesture to Jordan and then to Mike and his camera.
“Well, I don’t know. I suppose so,” he replies in his wishy-washy way, like my explosive response is irrational.
