Page 101 of Good Days Bad Days
I tilt my head and cautiously ask the question that’s been tickling the tip of my tongue.
“But what if she did it? What if she did start the fire? Were you ever worried that she’d—”
My dad starts to answer, but Betty interjects.
“I didn’t start any fire.”
“I know, dear. I know,” he says, moving to her side, patting her arm lightly, clearly mortified she’s heard our conversation.
“Stop fussing over me for a minute so I can be heard,” she snaps, waving him away, and Greg listens, as always. He steps back, folding his arms and leaning against the darkened windows on the far side of the room where he watches as I slide the stool to the head of the bed. Her eyes are clear and focused as she speaks.
“I didn’t kill them. I didn’t kill Don, and I didn’t kill my baby,” she says, her voice growing warbly when she mentions her firstborn child. My father flinches like he wants to comfort her again, but I raise my hand, urging him to let her finish.
I take her hand in mine and she continues.
“My husband came home that day, and he was drunk, drunk and mad, mad and drunk. I’d seen him that way before, he was like thatmore and more since the baby and ... and ...” She trails off, seemingly losing her train of thought.
“Don. He came home from work the day of the fire,” I remind her, and she starts again.
“Oh, yes. Don. He was tall but not as tall as Greg. Greg’s a boy I work with—a kind man, good with tools,” she says. For a split second, I can envision him as a young man: a handsome, scrawny guy with big hands, curly hair, and a nervous smile. “That night Don and I fought because he wanted to leave town and leave our house.” She closes her eyes and winces as if she’s replaying the argument behind her eyelids. “I went to bed. I woke up in the dark and ... and there was a strange smell in the house.”
“The fire?” I ask.
“No, no. This was a different smell. This was ...” She opens her eyes, fear evident in them. “Exhaust. Car exhaust. I ran to the garage and I found him in the car. It was running. I opened the automatic door and dragged him out. He was still breathing just fine. He confessed that he was in trouble at work, and he thought this would solve things. I could get the life insurance instead of a husband in prison for whatever it was he’d done.” She brushes the detail aside as if it’s nothing and then focuses in closely. “He was fine—worked up and still a bit drunk, but fine. I made him coffee and sat him on the couch. I went to check on the baby to make sure the outburst hadn’t woken her, and ...”
Betty explodes, not into her usual fit of anger, but into a sorrowful flood of tears. Greg rushes across the room to her side and I can’t stop him this time. He sits next to her on the bed, his arm around her, dabbing at her tears, shushing her sobs. He gives me a pleading look asking me to let her be done.
“Of course,” I say, emotional myself at my mother’s retelling of Laura’s last night on this earth, but as I start to pull away, she shakes my hand to get my attention. The eagerness in her eyes tells me that it’s not me forcing her. Betty finally wants to tell her story.
I give her a reassuring squeeze.
“The garage was below the nursery,” she says, sniffling but stable. My father stays by her side, the look on his face telling me he’s never heard this part of the story before. “Somehow, maybe bad insulation or another flaw in the building was to blame, but when Don tried to take his own life—the exhaust had risen up into the room above it and taken my little Laura instead.”
I inhale sharply. What a tragedy. What a horrible, horrible loss. What a—totally valid reason to lose your ever-loving mind and burn shit down. I lean in, eager to know what happened next.
“I tried to get her to breathe, but she wouldn’t. Then Don tried, and he couldn’t either. He screamed and screamed, and I had to run away from his screaming or it was going to shatter my mind into a million pieces. I called Greg, asked him to come, and went outside to wait for him, but while I was sitting on the front porch, I smelled something new. This was not exhaust. This was burning. This was fire. I went to open the door to go inside and get Don and Laura, but the handle was already red hot, and I knew there was no way to get in. I ran to a neighbor’s house and called the fire department, but by the time they got there—it was too late. It was all gone.”
She finishes the story, holding up her bandaged hand as though she’d just burned it on a superheated doorknob and starts to cry again. I release her other hand and step away as she turns into my father, burying her face into his chest. He pats her arm, soothing her gently, whispering sweet words to her that I try not to listen to, feeling like an interloper.
“Promise you’ll stay,” she begs my dad. “Promise.”
“Of course I will, darling. Shhh. Shhh,” he replies, curling his body around hers, murmuring, “I didn’t know. You never told me.”
In the hallway, I find a nurse and explain Betty’s emotional state. A few minutes later they add a sedative to her IV, and soon she begins to drift off to sleep. I gather my belongings and stand by the door, waiting for my dad to notice so I can say goodbye.
He’ll stay here tonight, probably until she’s ready to return to Shore Path, which means the project at the house will be on hold for a few days. That’s just enough time for Ian and me to get up to speed and make a few important decisions.
“I’m sorry,” I say to my dad when he looks up, hoping the apology covers all the mistakes I’ve made since I stepped foot in Wisconsin.
“It’s all right. We’re all right,” he says calmly, chant-like, rubbing large circles on Betty’s back.
Though Greg Laramie stayed by Betty’s side without needing to know what happened, I like to imagine he’s grateful to know the truth—or at least what this version of Betty claims is the truth. I can search records to confirm her story the best I can, but even with that, I don’t think we’ll ever really know for certain.
But I got enough of what I needed today.
My father cracked open his locked door just a little and whispered to me from inside, and my mom, she gave me a tiny glimpse into the tragic origin of her compulsion to hoard.
It’s likely she won’t remember this in the morning—she won’t remember him or me or even why she’s in the hospital. But I’ll never forget the sight of my father holding my mother as she weeps for the daughter she lost to death while talking to the other daughter she lost to life.
