Page 96 of Good Days Bad Days
“My God, did you buy all the food that’s ever existed?” Olivia asks, laughing, glancing between us, catching on to the change in our vibes.
“I’m sorry, I’m hungry,” Ian replies.
“Wait, where’s your grandfather?” I ask, noticing Olivia is alone.
“Grandma’s awake. He went back, like, fifteen minutes ago. She was asking for you.”
“Me or Laura?” I ask as Olivia opens the pizza box and snags a triangle.
“You,” she says, talking while chewing. “She asked for you. Grandpa said to send you in when you got back.”
The nurse seems to pick up on our conversation and chimes in.
“You’re the daughter? She’s waiting for you. Room 312. I can buzz you through.” A deepzzzemanates from the wall dividing us from the patient rooms.
“You OK, Mom?” Olivia asks, wiping a splotch of sauce from the corner of her mouth.
Mom.What a funny word. It seems so natural coming out of my daughter’s mouth, yet it’s so awkward to say as a daughter myself. Which mom will I see when I walk through that door—the one who raised me, loved me sometimes, and bit me like a coiled snake at other times? That mother is the one who blames me for our estrangement and is the same person who chose her hoard over me, the one who kept her secrets buried not inside her house, but deep within her mind. She resembles a sweet woman named Betty—a person I could have had as my mother if life had treated us both differently.
“I hope so,” I say, diving through the door to the other side before I think better of it all.
Chapter 38
Greg
February 4, 1974
Glen Oak Drive
Janesville, Wisconsin
As I approach Betty’s neighborhood, I have the gun resting on my lap, prepared for any confrontation that might await me. But when I attempt to turn down Glen Oak Drive, I’m stopped by a man in a uniform, hand up, flares blocking the road. With shaking hands, I slide the pistol back into the glove box and slam it shut as the officer gets to the driver’s side door.
“This road is closed,” he says when I get the window rolled down.
“What’s going on?” I ask, leaning out to look down the street filled with police cars, ambulance, fire trucks, and groups of neighbors in bathrobes. Unfortunately, I can’t see beyond them or the line of trees that obstructs my view around the turn. The scent of fireplaces burning to combat the February chill fills the air.
The officer looks irritated by my question, as though the unfolding events in this neighborhood are the only reason he isn’t back at the warm station, drinking coffee.
“A problem in one of the houses,” he says, looking at me and then the lettering on the side of the truck, one eyebrow raised. “What you doing out this time of the night, anyway?”
Driving around with a gun in my lap fantasizing about killing a man,I think, keeping my hands visible so he has no reason to suspect anything shady. “I worked for a guy on this street.” I point in the direction of Betty’s house, not mentioning her name just in case the officer got the wrong idea about our relationship and decided whatever Don did was justified.
“On this street? On this street where?” he asks. I tell him the address, and he checks something on a notepad before glaring back at me.
“You worked with Mr. Hollinger? Doing what?” The mention of Don’s name makes me dizzy. Shit. Shit. Shit. What did he do? I readjust in my seat, the springs creaking beneath me.
“I was an assistant producer and cameraman at WQRX. I’ve been overseas for the past two years.” The officer writes something on his pad, and the last shred of my patience slips away. “Listen, are they OK?”
He doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he asks a follow-up. “What’s your name again?”
“Greg. Greg Laramie.” He jots it down, clarifying the spelling, then continues his asinine line of questioning.
“Did someone ask you to come here tonight, Mr. Laramie? What you got in the back of that truck?” He tips his hat, narrowing his gaze at me as the flares reflect in his eyes, painting them an unholy crimson.
I think quickly and answer as simply as possible. Taking a breath, I remind myself that this man isn’t the enemy. I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m offering to open the cargo area and let him take a look when a red and white ambulance crawls to a stop a few yards away, waiting for me to move. I freeze, staring at it. Who is inside? Why is it moving so slowly? Where is Betty?
“I’m gonna need you to go ahead and park around the corner and unlock the back.” He points to a spot past the stop sign at the intersection leading back into the subdivision.
