Page 89 of Good Days Bad Days
“Makes sense,” I say, after giving a few courteous condolences, remembering what people used to tell me when they thought my parents were both deceased.
“She was on a Martha Stewart kind of show. The ... something ...Homemaker,” Olivia says, passing Betty a brush, which she drags through the ends of her short hairdo, oblivious to the conversation about her.
“The Classy Homemaker,” I fill in.
“I totally remember that show, but I heard ...” Taylor glances at Betty and then back at Olivia and me like she’s trying to decide if she should say something else. “She’s your mom?”
“Yeah. I’m Charlie, this is my daughter, Olivia, and this is Betty,” I say officially. Taylor takes us all in, sweeping her gaze around the table twice before speaking again.
“Never mind. I think I’m confused.” She scribbles something on her pad and gives a tight, fake smile. “I’ll get those waters and that coffee.” She starts to walk away, but I leap out of my spot, following her fluorescent gym shoes to the counter.
“Wait. What did you hear?” I ask, after adding two more turkey on ryes to our order.
“Nothing. Just gossip,” Taylor says, setting out a coffee cup and saucer and grabbing the half-empty pot of coffee from the warmer. She seems uncomfortable, but the part of me that’s been chasing Betty Laramie’s ghost is begging me to keep pushing. Just a little. What could it hurt?
“I don’t mind gossip,” I say, leaning against the counter.
“I mean—you don’t already know?”
“Nope. I left home when I was pretty young and now my mom’s memory is bad. I promise you won’t offend me,” I say like we’re having some casual girl talk.
The pot’s glass clanks as she returns it to the warming plate. She sighs and puts her hands on the linoleum on either side of the steaming cup.
“When I took down the pictures before Mom moved away, she showed me your mom’s picture, asking if I remembered her show, which, of course, I did.” She slides the coffee in front of me. “She told me the show was canceled ’cause something crazy happened with her house and ...” I hold my breath, wondering if my mother’s hoarding started so long ago, perhaps it was discovered and discredited her title of Classy Homemaker. “I’m sure it’s mean talk, jealous people.”
She puts three cups of soup on a tray and stops in front of me to grab the coffee. I look at her with raised eyebrows, my need to know the decades-old rumor intensifying.
“Fine,” she says. “People said she lost her mind and killed her husband and daughter. She was never arrested, but ...” Taylor shrugs. “It kinda ruined her TV career.” She picks up the loaded tray. “But it can’t be true ’cause”—she tips her head to me and Olivia—“you don’t look so dead.”
Taylor sways to the corner booth, leaving me frozen next to the broken stool with the cardboard sign, my mouth suddenly sticky and dry. Killed. Husband. Daughter. Not dead.
It wasn’t the gossip I expected, and the words don’t make sense.
Killed.Betty Laramie may not have been a perfect mother, but she never laid a finger on me. And my father—she may have buried him alive with her belongings, but she also kissed the nape of his neck when she thought I wasn’t watching, dreamily listened to him play the grand piano in the back room of Time and Again as though he was a virtuoso, made sure a hot dinner waited for him on the table every night and thathis clothes were clean and pressed no matter the state of the rest of the home. My mother was mentally ill, but a murderer?
As I quickly type a message to Cam, filling him in on the gossip, certain words stand out to me.
Husband.Until three days ago, I had no idea my mother had a first husband. Cam found the marriage license. Dad said he’d died tragically.
Daughter.I always wanted a sister or brother, someone to play with, to share the responsibility of being Betty’s child. Though I haven’t considered myself her daughter in a long time, I am Betty Laramie’s only daughter, or so I thought.
Not dead.Nope, I’m definitely not dead, so much so that I’ve passed Betty’s genes to my daughter, who sits with her grandmother, sipping on soup and checking my position across the room. When Taylor slips back into the kitchen, I hit send on my text and return to the table.
“Careful. The soup is hot—” Olivia starts to say, but I talk directly to Betty, sitting beside her in the red vinyl booth.
“Mom,” I say in a steady voice, trying to remain calm. “Do I have a sister?”
Olivia looks at me, confused.
“What?” Betty asks, like I’ve snapped her out of a trance. “Who are you?”
“Did you have any children with ...” I search for the name my father said, the one Cam told me over the phone. “Don. Did you have any kids with Don?”
“Mom, what are you talking about?” Olivia says, a line forming between her eyebrows. I don’t let her question distract me.
“Did you have a baby with your first husband? Don.”
“Don?” she says. It seems like she recognizes his name and my curiosity swells.
