Page 2 of Good Days Bad Days
I get hundreds of messages a week, and I leave the majority of them unopened. But the DMs I found on Ian’s Instagram were not unopened. They were not hidden either. The profile picture was of a gorgeous blond woman in a revealing top, at least ten years younger than me with a smile that still pops into my mind when I let my guard down. The messages were flirtatious, inappropriate, heartbreaking.
And though I felt like a jealous teen looking through his DMs, I’m glad I did. I’d never distrusted Ian before. He’s my business partner and TV cohost, and until a week ago, he was my best friend. He swears it was a silly mistake, that there was nothing physical, that this was the first and only time. I can’t bear to linger on his excuses long enough to decide if they are true.
He calls at least five times a day and texts me even more. When I decided to visit my parents, I broke my silence and texted him back. I asked if he’d take my carpool day and keep my stepsons, ten-year-old twins, Mack and Bradley, connected with their older sister, my nineteen-year-old daughter, Olivia, from my first marriage. He agreed, and I left the next day.
I’m not ready to talk. I’m not prepared to ask myself if I want to play detective and figure out if I’ve been married to a stranger or if I want to walk away before he can hurt me again. Which might be another reason I’m here in Lake Geneva, waiting to talk to my mom after I’d vowed to never speak to her again.
The receptionist hangs up the phone and gives a big smile.
“Nurse Mitchell will be out in a minute. You can wait over there if you like.”
She points to the sitting area with a fire burning in a large gas fireplace. I thank her and find a comfortable spot to wait. The whole room smells of campfire and cinnamon, with the ever-so-faint scent of bleach underneath it all. For a nursing home, it’s welcoming and homey, which I’m sure is essential for the fifty-two residents with severe cognitive impairments like dementia or Alzheimer’s.
Dad said it’s the best facility in the area. It looks like one of the old mansions that skirt the lakeshore, carefully restored to transform it into a functional care facility. Still, I can tell this is new construction. The grand cathedral ceiling in the foyer has a more modern look, for one. The halls on either side of the desk lead to a key-card-controlled entry with low ceilings, closer to eight feet, which would’ve been unfashionable for an aristocratic family from the nineteenth century. The floors appear to be distressed oak, but it only takes two echoey steps to discover that it’s tile.
New construction, for sure. It’s similar to some of our city remodels with modern architecture—more Ian’s thing than mine. I like the old stuff with a story behind it, wood that’s been distressed by feet and time rather than in a factory or with a hammer and dark stain in a workshop.
“Hello, Lottie.” Greg Laramie’s voice pulls me out of my “work mind,” and I suddenly find myself on my feet.
“Hey, Dad. How are you?” I ask as though we see each other regularly on holidays and birthdays like most normal families. Those normal families would hug now, but I don’t want to embrace this stranger who vaguely resembles my dad.
“I’m fine. I’m glad you made it. I was afraid you might have problems with the roads after the storm.” He makes small talk. I chat back with simple details of my trip, noting everything that’s the same and everything different about him. His hair is gray and thinning, and the skin under his eyes sags. He’s tall as before, well over six feet, but his shoulders are stooped, making him appear shorter. He’s skinny everywhere except for a slight paunch that protrudes above his belt. He looks tired and old, a visual reminder of how many years have passed.
We get to an awkward pause in our conversation when we run out of weather- and transportation-related questions. I could ask about my mom, but I wish he’d ask about his grandkids, my husband, or my real life in any way.
He speaks again, starting and stopping a few times out of apparent nerves.
“You l-look just . . . like . . .”
I’m dying to know what comparison popped into his mind. Do I look just like I did on my first day of school? The last time he saw me? My mom when she was younger?
“... you do on your show,” he finally mumbles, and my hope drops a touch. It’s meaningful to me that he watchesSecond Chance Renovation, but I’m far more interested in knowing where I came from, how he remembers me. Betty and Greg Laramie are the memory keepers of my early life. Since our estrangement, I’ve always felt like there are gaps in my childhood I can’t fully understand without their input.
“Oh, you watch?” I continue the small talk.
“I’ve caught a few episodes here or there.” I can tell by the shuffle in his stance that it was more than an accidental channel switch that brought him to my show.
“And Mom?” I ask, finally finding the courage to mention the reason we’re both here.
He shakes his head and stares at the floor. It hurts but it’s not a surprise. Betty Laramie, the caring mother who loved her daughter more than anything and then slowly turned into a woman who protected her belongings over all else, blames me for the school’s call to CPS thirty-one years ago.
I know hoarding disorder is a real, complex, and difficult-to-treat mental health condition. I know her urge to collect, save, and protect her belongings is a compulsion linked to OCD and possibly PTSD that has nothing to do with her love for me. I know that for her, the cocoon of belongings feels safe, and the thought of losing them, panic inducing. I know all these things, but I still can’t understand how she essentially gave away her one and only child without a fight and then ended up mad at me.
“Are you positive she wants to see me, Dad? I mean, it’s been a long time ...”
“She does love you, you know,” Dad says, offering an olive branch.
I want to say,I don’t think she knows what love isorI’m a mother and I could never imagine choosing junk over my child,but I’m not here to confront my parents. I’m here for closure, distraction, and maybe to get answers to questions about my past. I stop my bitter response and take a breath instead.
A tall, middle-aged woman in green scrubs with a name tag reading “Mitchell” pinned to her left breast approaches us, and my heartbeat travels to my ears. This must be the nurse who’ll take us to my cold, judgmental, distant mom, who somehow thinks it’s my fault she’s not in my life after all she’s done.
“Hello, Mr. Laramie. Is this the daughter I’ve heard so much about?”
“Yes. This is our daughter, Charlotte.”
My God, it’s been forever since anyone called me that. I have to pull back on the reins of my emotions as I shake Nurse Mitchell’s hand.
“Wonderful to meet you. Your parents have told me all about you.”
