Page 94 of Good Days Bad Days
“Yeah, Grandpa, it was my fault,” Olivia chimes in from behind us, taking full responsibility, which is wrong.
“It wasn’t her fault. It was mine. I drove us to Ike’s and I made Mom upset. She seemed so happy to be there again, so awake, you know?”
Greg unfolds the handkerchief from his front right pocket, wipes his nose, then folds it to dab his eyes before returning it to its place.
“I know you girls didn’t mean it,” he says, agitated but still soft spoken. “But, Lottie, I told you to leave her be. I told you it was painful for her.”
I scowl. Yes, he warned me, but he’s been asking me to tiptoe around my mom’s fragility since I started walking.
“I toldyou, Dad. I just want to know the truth. You invited cameras into your house, signed papers, but you won’t tell your own daughter some basic facts about you and Mom.”
“It’s better to leave some things in the past,” my dad says, which I’ve always known is his mantra. It’s probably what he expected me to do—leave things in the past like Mom’s neglect, Dad’s abandonment, and their absence from my life all these years.
“I tried, Dad. I tried to leave you and Mom in the past, but thenyoucalled and asked me to come home. You needed me. You know where you’d be if I hadn’t come? The social worker said you’re about to lose guardianship of Mom. If it weren’t for the work I’ve facilitated on the house, you’d lose that, too. You’re willing to use me to help Mom, but when I want a few answers—it’s too much. Damn you, Greg. Mom isn’t the only one with trauma, OK? I have trauma, too. I was in goddamned foster care. I lost both my parents, but they didn’t die, they chose not to be with me.”
My voice is loud, and the nurse sitting at the reception desk is definitely listening. If I were anyone other than Charlie McFadden losing my shit in a hospital waiting room, I’d likely be asked to leave.Ian, who’s been withdrawn and irritable since finding me with Cam, is beside me now, his arm around me. I lean into him, melting against his solid chest, wishing it could be this easy.
Inside the shelter of Ian’s embrace, I wait, hoping my father will apologize like I did with Olivia. At the very least, I wish he would offer an explanation to fill in the missing pieces of our family’s story, which feels like a chaotic Mad Libs version of our lives. However, he doesn’t get the chance. A middle-aged doctor, nearly as tall as my father, approaches, his scrubs top carelessly tucked into one side of his drawstring pants beneath his white coat, and calls out my mother’s name.
“Betty Laramie. Is Betty Laramie’s family here?”
As messed up as we all are, the label seems to fit. Ian signals to the doctor.
“How is she?” Olivia asks, her toes bouncing against the waxed tile floor.
“Hello. Yes. Uh, Betty Laramie. You’re her ...”
“Granddaughter,” I jump in for Olivia. “And I’m her daughter, this is my husband, and my dad.” Ian’s embrace tightens when I call him my husband, and I can’t deny it—saying it feels better than I expected.
“Ah, I see. Well, she’s stable now. Obviously, there are some complications because of her mental state, but her injuries are mostly superficial.” Olivia and I let out a sigh of relief at the same time.
“Thank God,” I say, grateful not only because I put Betty in this situation and allowed Olivia to be a part of it, but also because as hard as I’ve tried not to, I care about my mom.
“That being said,” the doctor continues, adjusting his glasses and flipping through the chart, “your mother has an untreated bacterial infection in her urinary tract that I’m fairly certain she’s had for a while.” He must sense our increased concern because he quickly follows up. “It’s a simple infection. We started her on antibiotics and should see some improvement shortly.”
“Well, that’s good,” Greg says, his fists in his pockets. “Can we see her?”
“Soon, but here’s the thing with bacterial infections and patients with your wife’s medical history: Even a minor UTI can cause increased delirium for those already struggling with dementia. Have you noticed a rise in erratic behaviors, mood swings and such?”
I think of the recent outbursts, both in the courtyard and Ike’s, and the way she tried to run into the cars in the parking lot with Olivia. I nod, and my dad adds some additional insights, asking a few more questions as if he’s dealt with this complication before.
“We’ve got her on IV antibiotics. While not all of her erratic behavior over the past few days can be linked to this infection, some of it could be. Time will tell.”
As the diagnosis sinks in, I realize there is a possibility that with treatment, we might start seeing more of “good day” Mom instead of “Betty” Mom.
I sink into one of the maroon chairs. I might not get to see Betty again, say I’m sorry, say goodbye. If I visit her before leaving town, Betty might be my mom—the mom who abandoned me, the mom who hates me.
I suppose I deserve this. I’ve been playing around with a sick elderly woman’s mental state for far too long—I should’ve known it would eventually catch up with me.
“I’d like to let her rest for a bit, but I’ll have one of the nurses take you up to her floor and we’ll call you back when she’s awake.”
He leaves, and Ian makes a pizza order through an app on his phone. I consider whether to sit around in a waiting room with my dad or help Ian. I quickly stand up when the elevator doors open and leap inside.
“Whoa. Hi,” he says as the elevator closes again. He hits the LL button for the lobby.
“I need a breather,” I explain, crossing my arms and leaning against the elevator wall.
“And you thought helping me was a better option than hanging out with your estranged dad? Thank you?”
