Page 6 of Good Days Bad Days
“Oh, hi! Lovely to meet you,” she says, smoothing her pants. I’m not surprised Betty doesn’t recognize me, but I find the blank look she gives my father a little unnerving. There’s something else new about my mother, a lightness in her expression that makes it seem like I’m meeting her all over again.
“Hello, Betty. This is Charlotte, your daughter.”
“My daughter?” she asks, bemused, eyeing me skeptically. “I don’t have a daughter.”
She says it like it’s a fact, not a bitter reference to our falling out. Nurse Mitchell gives me an empathetic look. I’m sure most visitors find it difficult to be forgotten by their loved ones, but strangely, it doesn’t faze me. It’s fascinating being in the same room as my mother without the undercurrent of negativity that always fed the electric fence around her.
“It’s Lottie, hon. She’s come to visit,” Dad says, using my childhood nickname, stepping toward Mom’s chair. She rolls her eyes like an annoyed teen and then zones in on me.
“Your hair is very shiny,” she says with a friendly smile. I can’t remember my mother saying something positive about my appearance since I reached puberty. Though our house was a mess, or maybe because of it, she insisted I always looked perfect when I went out inpublic. One of our last fights was when I tried to go to school in stylish ripped jeans that my friend Lacey gave me.
“You look unkempt,” she said. “Plus, it shows your thick thighs. Skirts are far more flattering until you lose a few pounds.”
I ran out of the house, causing several of her treasures to crash behind me, which always set her nerves on edge. I slammed the door as hard as I could. That day at school I talked to my counselor about it all. She already knew something of the hoarding. It’s impossible to keep that kind of thing under wraps in a town filled with mansions and millionaires for very long. She saw me run into school late, crying, and pulled me into her office.
She was the first one I’d ever confided in about my parents’ house, but the truth poured out of me that morning, and two days later, Mrs. Lavarito from Child Protective Services showed up on our doorstep. After her home visit, I was removed, carrying one garbage bag of belongings and my school backpack. It was supposed to be temporary. Mrs. Lavarito comforted me with promises of support from social services and mental health professionals. But I never saw my school counselor again, my mom or my house. I had no idea a pair of jeans would change my life so drastically, bringing me to this moment over thirty years later.
“Uh, thank you,” I say to this friendly version of my mom and then offer back, “I like the color of your lipstick.”
“Oh, thanks. I’m going to a dance later and it matches the dress I got from Gimbels.”
“A dance? That sounds fun,” Nurse Mitchell replies while writing a note on the whiteboard. I can tell from the look on her face that there’s no such dance here at Shore Path Memory Center.
Unstuck in time,that’s what the nurse said before we headed back to see Mom. This person I’m talking to is technically my mother, but I think she’s reliving a moment from years before I was born.
“I guess. I’m going with Nicky Sheridan, so I don’t know if it will be fun, but my dress has a crinoline, and”—she leans in and whispers—“it’s a full inch shorter than the dress code.”
“Whoa, Betty, you’re a rebel,” Nurse Mitchell responds, meeting my mom in her own reality.
She giggles, which is an odd sound from my mother.
“Wanna try it?” She holds the tube of lipstick up and squints to read the label. “Defiant Coral. It sounds sassy and I like that.”
She gives her shoulders a little shake. I try to stop my laugh, but it puffs out. My dad holds back a smirk.
“I rarely turn down sassy,” I say with a shrug.
She points to an aluminum and plastic chair across the room. Nurse Mitchell drags it over, saying something about how we’re doing just fine. She excuses herself.
My mom takes the cap off her lipstick and gestures for me to sit, insisting on applying the color herself. I follow her instructions and give her a slight pucker as she uses her shaky hand to smooth it on.
“Press them together, hon,” she says, and I comply. She makes a sweet cooing sound. “Perfect! That’s a great color on you.”
I have no idea what the color actually looks like since there’s no mirror handy, but I don’t care if I look like a clown.
“Wanna play gin rummy?” She reaches for a pack of cards sitting on the short table beside her.
When I was little my mom would play game after game of solitaire, but we never played games together as a family. My throat is thick and sticky.
I take a deep breath and answer, “Yes, I’d love to play.”
My dad brings a side table over and puts it between us, and my mom starts passing out the cards. Dad does that shoulder squeeze thing again as he sits beside me, which doesn’t exactly make it easier to keep my feelings under control. She picks up her cards and looks at me long and hard, as if she remembers something. I hope she’s not remembering who I really am.
After a long pause, I look at my dad. He puts down the first card, starting the game. Immediately, Mom engages in the activity, and I play with both of my parents for the first time in my entire life.
As the game progresses, I watch my mother suspiciously and wait for her charming facade to drop. As the hour goes on, I find myself relaxing, enjoying myself, even. When it’s time to go, my mom puts her arms out as though asking for a hug.
“I’ve missed you so much,” she says, her eyes misty and sincere. I know I should respond in like and tell her I’ve missed her as well, but I can’t.
