Page 98 of Good Days Bad Days
“Wait. She’s alive?”
The officer darts his eyes from side to side, nodding. “Yeah, she’s alive. She’s inside.”
“Here?” I ask, wanting to break through the doors and see the miracle for myself, when another realization hits me. “Why is she here?”
“Uh, because the crazy lady killed her husband and baby and set the house on fire.”
“That’s—that’s impossible.”
“No, you know what’s impossible? A house burning up that fast without some help. You know what else is impossible? Getting out of a house on fire without so much as a sunburn. But murder? Now that’s totally possible. You know what I mean?”
I don’t know exactly what he means, but I do know this: Betty is in big trouble, such big trouble that I don’t think she can get out of it without some help—any help,myhelp.
“But she didn’t start the fire,” I say, my body no longer shaking.
“How would you know that?” he asks, his eyebrow lifted suspiciously again.
“Because Don called me. That’s why I was there.” I clear my throat and prepare to tell the biggest lie of my life—one that could either save Betty or condemn us both. “Don told me there was a problem with their furnace. He couldn’t get it to light. Said the place smelled like gas. I told him to get out and I’d be right over, but I guess ... I guess he didn’t listen.”
The officer looks at me, a flicker of understanding beginning to show on his face. I’m uncertain if my lie will hold or if it will turn out that Betty, or Don, or someone else poured gasoline on the house and lit a match. But this time, I had to actually do something to help Betty. If it meant lying—lying a million times over—I’d do it. Today, tomorrow, and for as long as she needs me.
Chapter 39
Charlie
Present Day
“I heard you were here,” Betty Laramie says as soon as I step into her hospital room. She’s attached to beeping machines and long tubes, with bruises starting to form on one of her cheeks and bandages wrapped around both of her hands. A jolt of remorse fills my chest.
My father, who is sitting in a chair at Betty’s bedside, chimes in. “Lottie’s been here for a month now, Bets. She’s a real help. Her girl, Olivia, is here, too. A smart kid. She did your nails, I think.”
“I don’t remember any Olivia,” Betty says, glaring at me. “You haven’t let them in the house, have you? You know how I feel about that. If Charlotte wants something, she can come ask me herself, but no one else can go inside.”
“I know, dear,” he says, working to calm her with a pat.
She’ll forget her house and belongings soon—my father knows it and I know it. It’s strangely easier this way. If her memory were intact, we’d have to fight her tooth and nail to clear out the house. In fact, if her memory were intact, I don’t think I’d be here at all. Nurse Mitchell says some people turn from sweet to bitter with dementia, while othersturn into a more amiable version of themselves. Then there are those, like my mother, who swing back and forth between both extremes.
“When are we going home, Greg? I want to go home.” She sounds different when she talks to him—sweet, as if she remembers that he’s her husband and that she loves him. You know what, good for him. He’s invested more into Betty Laramie than any other person or endeavor in this world, so he deserves the bursts of kindness when they come.
“You had an accident, dear. You need to stay in the hospital for a bit. They need to help you get better.” He speaks slowly and clearly. Even though she’s only a few hours into her antibiotics, I swear I can see a slight difference. She’s confused about time and struggles with recent memory recall, but she seems to have access to some more well-established neural pathways.
“Is the baby all right? I had her in the car seat,” she says, and I wonder which baby she’s referring to.
“It wasn’t that kind of accident. Everyone’s safe. You just need some medicine and some rest,” my dad reassures her.
“Well, you don’t seem all right,” she says, noticing my bandages. I haven’t said a word since I walked in the room, but she’s completely focused on me.
“It’s nothing,” I say, attempting to deflect her attention. She scowls at me as if I’m annoying her.
“Don’t lie to me, Charlotte,” she says, using my real name. Anxiety spikes inside me so high I’m sure it’s affecting my blood pressure. A little woozy, I search for a chair and end up settling for the rolling stool on the other side of my mom, usually reserved for the doctor or nurse.
“See? You’re not fine. You’re hurt. Come on, get over here,” she orders, urging me closer. I don’t know what to do. I’ve been repeatedly told not to argue with a person who has dementia. I’ve been taught to placate and then change the subject if necessary and encouraged to remember that they’re not truly themselves because of the disease. But in this case, I’m worried that she is indeed herself and I’ll regret letting her get so close to me.
I scoot the stool across the floor until I’m next to the bed, but not touching it.
“Now, tell me what happened?” she says. “Show me.”
“Like Dad said—an accident.” I lift my bandaged hand, where I was both burned and scratched.
