Page 85 of Good Days Bad Days
Defensiveness coils inside me. “I’m glad you got something out of this trip, but this is different than what happened with my mom. I’ve always been there for you.”
Her lower lip trembles. “OK. It’s not exactly the same, but I barely saw you for like five years other than at some school things, crazy busy vacations, and a few weeks in the summer.”
I open my mouth to argue, wanting to tell her that we made the best of what we had and that she was the one who wanted to move in with her dad, but I stop myself. My daughter thinks I abandoned her. Though the details of our stories are different, some of the main themes are heartbreakingly the same. And despite all that, she came here to help, to fix things for me, and as a bid for connection.
I calm my stirred-up guilt and regret, and instead of explaining her pain away, I say what I’d love for my parents to tell me.
“I’m sorry, Olivia. I’m so sorry I’ve made you feel like that.”
“I should’ve said something sooner,” Olivia says, trying to take on the blame. I correct her, thinking of my conversation with my father a few days ago.
“No, no. You were a kid. I was so wrapped up in my own life that I let myself believe you knew exactly what you wanted.”
“I had a good childhood. I know I shouldn’t complain, but I just—I don’t know—I’ve missed you. And it used to make me so mad at you, like all teen angsty, you know? You’ve always been so freaking strong and independent and successful, like ...” She searches for a comparison,then blurts, “It’s like you’re this goddess, and I’m your mortal offspring. But now, with the Ian situation, and things with Grandma and Grandpa, I’ve seen the human part of you.”
Human. I’m no longer a mythical creature, the immortal, infallible creature called “mother”—I’m real. I discovered that dissonant truth about my own mother and father at a far younger age, but the revelation wasn’t like this. It was more like finding out at the end of a movie that the villain was the hero’s best friend.
“I’m definitely not mythical,” I agree, rubbing her arm, wishing I could go back and fix the parenting mistakes I’ve made, when another hand is laid on mine. The nails are painted pink, the skin translucent and spotted, the joints swollen. It’s my mother’s hand joining me in comforting Olivia.
As I’ve gotten to know Betty, I’ve come to see my own mother’s humanity as well. Seeing my hand sandwiched between Betty’s and Olivia’s, I feel a bit more accepting of my mother’s flaws.
“I love you,” I say to Olivia and maybe a little bit to Betty. “I will do better. I promise.”
“And I’ll stop acting like a character in a Disney movie,” Olivia says, smiling tearfully.
“We’re a little too screwed up for Disney.”
“Hey,” Betty says from the back seat, patting my hand. Olivia and I wait, assuming she’ll add her ownI love youand put a heartwarming cap on our multigenerational bonding. Instead, she asks, “Are we going to Ike’s?”
Olivia and I break into laughter at Betty’s one-track mind. I hold my mom’s hand and encourage her to sit back in her seat so the belt doesn’t lock up. I finally understand what came over Olivia in the parking lot of Shore Path. It’s our last day together, us three.
Tomorrow, Betty might not remember a trip to Janesville or a lunch at Ike’s, but we will. My dad might be furious, but you know what—screw him. He never had to deal with my rebellious phase. Anyway, he’s been tiptoeing through life, tiptoeing around my mother. If theday turns toward reality for my mother and she remembers my name and her house—if she stops loving me—it is what it is. At least we had today.
“Hey, switch places with me,” I tell Olivia with a conspiratorial tone. She raises her eyebrows at me but trades spots without asking for more information. Once we’re all buckled, I roll down the windows, turn up the radio, put the car in drive, and pull onto the empty highway.
“Faster!” Betty calls from the back seat. I press on the gas until the engine revs and the wind slaps the ends of my hair against my cheeks.
“Faster! Faster!” Betty, Olivia, or both chant. I push the gas pedal to the floor, and Olivia whoops from the passenger seat as I slide into the westbound lane toward Janesville.
The smooth road, newly plowed fields, and cheerful baby-blue sky make for a pleasant ride, and Betty dozes quietly for most of it, the bunched-up blanket wedged beneath her head and the window. I turn down the music to allow her to rest, and Olivia takes the opportunity to dig deeper into our freshly exposed issues.
The miles fly by and it’s a relief to leave Lake Geneva behind me for a bit. My father made it clear this morning—my days there are limited. I need to get used to the idea of leaving it behind, closing this unfinished chapter, moving forward with my unwritten ones. My parents’ house and story are for a different book than mine—it will be told whether I share in the telling of it.
Chapter 34
Greg
August 15, 1973
Betty’s House
Janesville, Wisconsin
By the time Harry arranged the delivery of Betty’s piano, I regretted the little temper tantrum I threw in my bedroom after she left. I took out all her letters, ripping off the length of silk ribbon I’d bought at B?n Thành Market to keep them together, and started rending them into pieces one at a time, destroying the physical evidence of the delusional love story I’d lived through them. As I worked through the stack in a frenzy, the picture of Betty I’d slid into the wooden frame of a small, cloudy mirror hanging over my desk stared back at me. Betty, looking down on me in her wedding dress with that TV show smile, flowers she probably arranged on her own, and the ring I first saw in that banquet hall, the impetus for my escape to Vietnam.
I dropped the letter I was about to tear apart and grabbed the faded photograph, which was sticky in the corners from where the Scotch tape had kept it on my headboard in the Caravelle. It needed to go, even more than the words she’d written. This picture of my fake “wife” needed to be shredded into pieces.
Turning the photograph over so I didn’t have to look into Betty’s eyes as I destroyed her, I held it tight, closed my eyes, and willed my fingers to do the rest, but I couldn’t. No matter how many times I gritted my teeth and cursed, or how many tears squeezed out from my crunched eyelids, I just couldn’t shred it. Eventually, I let her drop onto the desk, intact, and then put my head down on the pile of letters and wept.
